


we started secret plans

by thememoriesfire



Series: Eyes Closed to Fingers Crossed [8]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:30:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel's always been about conquering the world one ambition at the time, and maybe that's enough; all Santana can do is hope that it is. [Part 8 of ECFC.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you SO much to everyone for your patience with this. Honestly, the biggest gratitude goes out to other writers in the fandom, who have recently dislodged something that was stuck for a while--but as always, I love my cheerleaders, and anyone else who has been waiting around for the story. It won't be long now until we hit the end.

So.

It’s how every conversation she tries to have with Brittany about what happened starts.

So--Rachel and I had sex. But that doesn’t cover it in the slightest. Yeah, it might be technically accurate, but it’s also a load of shit because--it wasn’t about that.

So--Rachel thinks I hate her so I fucked her to show her that I don’t.

Shit, she can’t even convince _herself_ that that’s what went down.

So--Rachel’s …

She doesn’t have the words, and after a while she just gets up off the couch again, reaching for the bag of frozen peas on Brittany’s knees, and she heads to the kitchen to replace it with a bag of frozen corn.

“Things are really messed up,” Brittany says, before exhaling slowly and leaning forward to tie the bag back around her knee with a towel. “I mean, not just with my ACL. I just mean everything.”

Other people would ask questions, like what the fuck happened with your leg, or what the fuck happened with Artie.

Santana just feels something inside of her collapse completely at the way they’re sitting in an apartment that doesn’t feel like her home anymore, and drops her head on Brittany’s shoulder.

Brittany tilts her head just enough for there to be contact.

They’ve sat like this so many times, but it’s never felt less like they’re actually with each other.

*

She knows, abstractly, what Rachel’s doing.

She didn’t ask, but Quinn volunteered the information. In kind, Santana let her know that Sam was back in Philly and hadn’t mentioned a thing. The semi-awkward halt in conversation was yet another thing she didn’t want to dwell on, because how the fuck can she be of any use to Quinn when she can’t even deal with her own life right now? Or _ever_ , really?

Brittany’s camping out in Rachel’s bedroom.

She hasn’t heard the hum of the elliptical in days. God, she’s not even sure if she can sleep without it there, even though all it did when Rachel was around was wake her up.

“I’m... sort of still banking on staying in Rachel’s room this summer,” Quinn finally says.

“Is this your way of telling me she’s not coming back from whatever the hell she’s doing with Puckerman?” Santana asks, forcing the words out past a lump in her throat that just won’t give. She stares at her phone constantly. It buzzes all the time, but never with anything she needs to hear.

“If she does, I’ll sleep on the couch,” Quinn says, neutrally, and Santana rubs at her forehead, wishing that the parts of her that hurt could be banished with a dose of Tylenol.

“Of course you can come. Britt can sleep with me,” she finally says.

“Santana...”

“What?” she asks, almost angrily. “It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed millions of times before. It’s not like anything even has to happen. It’s not like I fucking owe her--”

And it all just stops there, because Quinn isn’t the person she wants to be saying this to. She doesn’t want to be saying it at all.

“Puck says she’s … working on something. To tell you,” Quinn finally says, tentatively. It comes out sour and unhappy, like the part of this that matters the most is still the part where Quinn hates Rachel and Rachel hates Quinn.

Santana only has bitterness in response, and takes a few seconds to finally just say, “Whatever. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Britt needs me to go get her some sort of elastic thing to stretch with or whatever.”

“And what about you? What do _you_ need?” Quinn asks, bluntly.

The first word that comes to mind blindsides her completely, and she hangs up before anything else happens without her permission, like her entire life seems to these days.

*

Her mind betrays her _so hard_.

She dreams about Rachel, spread out beneath her and arching up into her hands. She dreams about Rachel _begging_ for her, and promising her the world in kind. She dreams of words coming out of Rachel’s mouth that she’s pretty sure Rachel would never even say, words like, “fuck me like you mean it, Santana”, in that pretty-girl voice she has, but rougher and more molten.

She dreams about waking up next to Rachel, after having fucked her senseless, and having her still there, with a small smile on her face and a hand that’s cupping her cheek and pulling on her face--like she’s going to be told the smartest of all secrets, and Rachel needs to pull her in close so that she can be sure Santana understands it.

She dreams of leaning into that hand, and--.

She wakes up with her own hand stretched across the mattress, reaching for something that isn’t there.

Brittany wakes up because of the crash her alarm clock causes when it breaks apart into a good twenty different pieces upon hitting the wall, and she spends most of the morning apologizing for that, between making breakfast for them and half-heartedly watching an episode of Spongebob.

Finally, just because bills are still going to need to get paid, and she doesn’t want to look as fucked up as she feels when Quinn gets in, she heads downstairs to get the mail and throw out the trash, and that’s when it’s there.

On the front of it is a picture of a starfish.

She knows who it’s from before she even flips it over, and then her hands shake so much the card fumbles to the ground, tipping over onto its front by her feet.

Rachel’s handwriting stares back at her. She’d know it anywhere. In a line-up of a hundred thousand fucking notes left for her, she’d be able to pick out Rachel’s handwriting, because Rachel writes like a fourteen year old boy and digs the tip of the pen into the paper too hard because whenever she writes anything she really means it. She signs with the letter “R” and jots a little star next to it, except that’s not there now--this is _just_ from R, and Santana stops breathing at just the sight of that.

Brittany appears at the top of the stairs a moment later and says, “Did you die?”

“No, obviously not,” Santana snaps, before holding up a hand in apology. “What--”

“It’s been fifteen minutes,” Brittany says, and then hobbles the rest of the way down the stairs. Santana would say something, but the doctor’s instructions are pretty straight-forward on the fact that she needs to start using it again or it’ll only take longer for her to recover from the surgery. “What’s--”

And damn, her knee might be out of commission but she’s so damn flexible that that doesn’t stop her from picking the card up and looking at it quizzically anyway.

“I can’t,” Santana says, when it’s held out to her. The words wrench themselves out of her throat, and there’s tears in her eyes again and Brittany pulls her into a hug without asking anything else.

“Okay, okay. Let’s talk about this. I don’t know what _this_ is, but--let’s go back upstairs and I’ll tell you about Artie and you’ll tell me about Rachel, because you’re my oldest friend and I love you, okay? That’s _never_ changed,” Brittany murmurs against her head, and Santana feels her entire frame start to shake, but Brittany’s steady enough for both of them.

With a big gulp, she sucks all of the shit running through her mind back in, and then lets Brittany usher her up the stairs, back into the apartment that’s so much more Rachel than it’s her, until they’re sitting next to each other on the sofa and Brittany’s adjusting her knee.

“It’s not that I don’t love him,” she finally says, and then sighs, resting her head on her hands, and her elbows on her knees. “I do, and he loves me. But sometimes that’s not everything, is it?”

The irony is almost blinding, and Santana says nothing; just stares at the postcard on the table, where Brittany dropped it, and waits for her to continue.

“I tore my ACL doing hip-hop. It was awful, San. I mean, it like literally tore. You could hear it. Sometimes I still dream about it,” Brittany says, quietly. “And then my leg was at like this super crazy angle, and I mean, you know I’m flexible but it like, went way beyond that. I passed out, I mean, that’s what Artie tells me. They called him and when I woke up I was in the hospital and he had to tell me that I might never dance again.”

Santana closes her eyes and reaches for Brittany’s leg--the _good_ one, and squeezes it. “Professionally, or...”

“It’s okay, the surgery went well. I mean, I can recover. It might act up from time to time but they have... I don’t know. Artie explained it all to me, but it’s not like it used to be, where like, if your ACL went, it was end of career,” Brittany says, biting her lip and covering Santana’s hand with her own.

There’s comfort in that touch, and Santana unwillingly thinks of kindergarten and sharing a sippy-cup of apple juice. God, things were better then.

“The thing is, … did you know that Artie wanted to be a dancer?”

Santana almost laughs; Jesus, what a terrible reaction to have. “No. But I mean--”

“Yeah, no, of course he knows,” Brittany says, with a squeeze. “But seeing me--lose what he lost, he just--”

There don’t seem to be any more words after that, until Brittany says, “I think it’s just one of those things. One relationship and three broken legs, it’s just too much to ask for. And I don’t want to hate him. He was there for me, even though it hurt him to see me when I really just couldn’t walk at all. I mean. He was _there_ for me, you know? He even offered to call you.”

It brings up an interesting point, like, the one where she had _no idea_ any of this was happening over in Boston. “Why didn’t you?”

Brittany’s silent for a long time and then says, “Because I really wanted to, and it wouldn’t have been fair.”

Santana feels her stomach twist uncomfortably at that fact, and then just says, “Yeah. I mean. We haven’t been close in--”

“Shut up, Santana,” Brittany says, taking a deep breath and then shifting her hand a little. “It was just too much. I didn’t want to hurt him, and I didn’t want him to be hurting, and I didn’t want him to hate me.”

“So you left,” Santana says, blinking until the postcard blurs over in the corner of her eye. “You left before it could get worse.”

Their pinkies tangle together automatically, and Santana sinks back into the couch and puts her free hand to her mouth.

“You slept with her, didn’t you?” Brittany finally just asks. “And she left. Before it could get worse.”

It’s as good a summary as anything, and Santana finally just nods, biting down on her knuckle and closing her eyes again.

“Do you want me to read the card to you?” Brittany asks, hesitantly.

The idea of Brittany reading whatever Rachel has to say is almost too much; Brittany’s voice, Rachel’s words. God, if only she could get a glimpse at the card without it killing her to find out what it says. If only she had the guts to read it herself.

“Yeah,” she finally says, in barely more than a whisper.

She keeps her eyes closed as the words wash over her.

“It’s number one. They’re numbered,” Brittany says, disembodied next to her, like the ghost of something that used to be hers. “And, okay. I’ll try to read this the way Rachel would, but I don’t have her breath control, so--”

The laugh that bursts from her chest hurts so much, but it’s also the thing to have her nudge Brittany with her knee and say, “Britt, come on. I can’t handle this, just--just do it. I don’t want to know but I need to know, okay?”

Brittany swallows audibly and says, “Yeah, okay.”

*

_The night we spent together should’ve been one of the best of my life, but it wasn’t, because I wasn’t ready for it. And neither were you. So I’m taking this opportunity to start over. You think I ran because I’m afraid, and I was. I was afraid of you rejecting me the next day, and I was afraid of you not rejecting me the next day. In the end, I knew I needed time--and so did you. You’re going to make me pay for this, but it’s okay, because I think it’s worth it if there is something between us--more than just that one night, I mean._

_I think there is. And this is me, trying to persuade you._

*

It takes everything in Santana’s body to not fly off the couch and out of the apartment, and if not for the fact that Brittany’s pinkie finger is still locked with hers, she’d be gone. Fuck knows where, but _gone_.

Brittany lets the card flutter back to the table with a quick toss and then says, “It’s a letter. You’re getting it in parts.”

“Why the fuck can’t she just--” Santana rasps out.

“Because she _knows_ you, and knows that you’re going to get angry first, and she doesn’t want you to still be angry when you get to the part that matters,” Brittany says, calmly.

Santana’s head feels like it’s going to explode, and she tears her hand away. “That’s just fucking priceless. I’m just _surrounded_ by experts on me, aren’t I.”

“San--”

“No, really. Keep telling me how well you know me, both of you. Because you sure have a fucked up way of showing it. You’ve done nothing but break my fucking heart for the entire time I’ve known you, and Rachel? Rachel just--” she says, but there’s that block in her chest again that she just can’t get past, and so all that’s left for her to do is to burst off the couch and storm into her room.

She doesn’t cry, this time; just listens to some Alanis while she waits for her heart rate to slow down, and wonders what Rachel would do if she put down _her_ feelings on a postcard right now.

It’d be a pretty brief message.

_Fuck you, you fucking coward._

*

It doesn’t even need to be said the next morning; Brittany’s eating some Fruit Loops from the box and staring at the door, and Santana’s just staring into space.

“What time does your mailman come?” Brittany asks, between loud crunches.

Dexter’s Laboratory blows up in the background.

“I have no fucking idea,” Santana says, and watches as Brittany puts the box down, grabs her keys from the key bowl, and heads out.

She can just about picture her going down the stairs, one aching step at a time.

*

_I always thought I would go to New York by myself. That I’d cut all ties to Lima and start fresh, and let me just say, it used to be a relief. Up until May of our junior year of high school, it was a relief that I’d never have to see any of you again. But then something in your life changed, and I’m sorry if it’s heartless for me to say that I’m glad that Brittany broke you so completely--because if she hadn’t, you would’ve never been in my life at all._

_New York was supposed to be about me, but it became about us instead. And I wouldn’t have it any other way right now. I can’t imagine living with someone else; you’re a terrible roommate, and possibly one of the least considerate people on earth full stop, but you’re the only one I want. Can you tell me that it’s any different for you?_

*

Santana stares into space some more when this card gets added to the other one. Is two cards a pile yet? Whatever. Apparently, Rachel has a _lot_ of words to get off her chest.

Not that that’s a surprise.

Brittany says, “This is pretty tame so far. I mean, it’s Rachel. I thought she would just.... I don’t know. Record a tape of herself singing _I Will Always Love You_ or something.”

Santana snorts and says, “Yeah, because _that_ would win me over.”

“So do you want to be won over?” Brittany asks, pointedly.

God damn it.

“I’m going for a walk,” Santana says, not looking at Brittany or the post cards, or at Rachel’s coat, still on the coat rack, like she’s going to come back any second now to collect it.

*

Quinn calls later and says, “You should be getting postcards by now.”

“What are you two, our fucking parents?” Santana snaps at her. “If Rachel wants to know if I’m receiving her obscure, bullshit doodles about her feelings she can ask me herself.”

Quinn whistles low and then says, “Right, so I take it she’s getting to you, then?”

“ _You’re_ getting to me,” Santana says, but the fight’s leaving her already.

“Just hear her out. She might have had a good reason for leaving,” Quinn says, neutrally.

“I thought you hated her,” Santana asks, because she honestly can’t even keep track of who is on whose side anymore. Or if there even _are_ sides.

“It’s not _hate_ , Santana. It’s--”

The sentence hangs in dead air for a while, and then Quinn just mumbles something about how they’ll talk about it in a week, when she’s moving in with them.

Santana looks at her bed, and at the side of where every morning, she expects to find something that isn’t there--except in seven days from now, there _will_ be something there, and--

God. She really doesn’t need things to get even more screwed up than they already are, but the last time she and Britt slept in the same bed and _actually_ just slept was when they were thirteen.

It doesn’t help that they’re both so lonely.

It doesn’t help that it would be so easy, either.

*

They run out of milk and coffee the next day, and Santana heads out to the corner store, where Kevin--the ginger garden gnome behind the counter--actually asks about Rachel, because she hasn’t been by to pick up her daily Sudoku in a while, and--

Santana has literally _fuck all_ idea what he’s even talking about.

“She’s out of town for the summer,” she finally just says, in an ultimate _none-of-your-business_ tone of voice.

He smiles a little. “Yeah, I can see why she’d hide her nerdy hobby from you.”

Fuck that guy and his fucking ginger goatee.

*

She tosses postcard number 3 to Brittany, and then says, “Sudoku is _seriously_ the stupidest fucking hobby on earth, I mean, who the hell wants to fill in nine squares with the same numbers every single day?”

“Yeah, math totally sucks,” Brittany agrees.

Santana laughs for the first time in like, a lifetime, without it actually hurting, and then sits down on the coffee table and says, “Hit me with it.”

Her chest hurts a little bit less than it did yesterday. That’s _nothing_ to do with the postcards, though.

*

_New York isn’t just the place I live. It’s home. More specifically, our crappy little walk-up with its dingy plasterwork and second hand furniture and semi-predictable hot water supply is more home to me now than even my dads’ place in Lima is. No matter how many awful auditions I trudge through or how long I’m on my feet at either of my jobs, I know that at the end of the day I’ll go to bed happy because there’s someone waiting for me at home._

_I don’t have a frame of reference for this, because I’ve never had a best friend, but maybe you can ask yourself if this sounds familiar, and if this is also how you’d feel if you lived with Quinn._

*

“That’s a pretty big question,” Brittany says, as the stack grows to three.

Santana doesn’t comment, but unwillingly thinks back to living with Quinn for the better part of her senior year anyway, and how they’d bitched at each other constantly about little things like who put the hair straightener where. It damn well hadn’t inspired her to start making Quinn dinner, or to predict what she’d want to watch on television later that night, because half the time they hadn’t even spent their evenings together.

She knows she’s sulking when Brittany pokes her in the shin with a toe, and says, “C’mon. Talk about what’s going on in your mind.”

“I can’t,” Santana says, and when Brittany looks at her questioningly, she just says, “It wouldn’t be fair”, because they don’t need more words between them than that.

The apartment goes from semi-okay to incredibly uncomfortable in a heartbeat, and something about the softening expression on Brittany’s face is like a red flag to Santana’s eyes.

“Why did she leave?” Santana finally just asks, when there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say.

Brittany doesn’t answer for a long time, but then finally says, “Maybe because loving you is scary, sometimes.”

Rachel’s never said those words, and Santana doesn’t need a Britt-to-English translator to know that it’s possible they’re not talking about Rachel at all anymore.

“Why did you let her leave?” Brittany asks in kind.

“I didn’t,” Santana answers, and heads to the kitchen to clean something that absolutely doesn’t need to be cleaned.

It’s only a little pathetic that she considers texting Quinn with an SOS. Honestly, some people would argue that admitting that she’s losing it is a sign that she’s finally growing up a little.

*

Things have changed, somehow, and she reads fourth postcard herself, out by the mailboxes in the lobby.

_I’m sure you have many questions, like--when did this start, for me? And the truth is, it started long before it should have. The biggest disservice you ever did to Sam was send him my way for prom, because he deserved so much better than he got from me. The reality of our relationship is that he loved me enough to spend the rest of his life with me, and I loved him only enough to not break his heart until it became clear to me that no matter what I did, I’d end up breaking it anyway. When the two of you sang to me right before Nationals last year, it was you I heard. So--this didn’t start for me in our home, in New York. It just grew there, with every passing day, until it all went horribly wrong._

She leans her head against the cool metal of the mailboxes and closes her eyes, because she remembers the song, and remembers looking at Rachel, and-- _shit_.

*

Sam is one of her best friends.

She has no idea how she’s supposed to be a friend to him at all when Rachel’s off west somewhere, telling her cutely that she’s the basic reason that he got his heart broken.

She didn’t _ask_ for this, and when he calls just to see if maybe she wants to play some CoD with him over XBox live, she feels so ill that she lies about having a migraine.

“By the way--has Quinn...” he says, awkwardly, and Santana sighs so deeply it hurts her lungs.

“Yeah, she has.”

“Did you tell Rachel?”

She almost just comes out with it--”Nope, but don’t worry, given that Rachel fucked _me_ recently I don’t think she’ll care about you and Quinn too much”--but it would just be lashing out at completely the wrong person.

“No. And I’m not going to. Unless there’s some reason for me to,” she finally just says.

Sam’s silent for a moment and then says, “This is weird. You’re her friend, too. I mean, you’re closer to her than you are to me, but--”

“Sam--this isn’t about Rachel,” Santana cuts him off, pinching the bridge of her nose; maybe she won’t be lying, if this keeps up.

“No, I meant Quinn,” he says, before clearing his throat. “She--she won’t stop apologizing. I don’t really know what to do. I mean, I should be the one who’s sorry. It’s like the second time--I mean...”

“Did you do something totally fucking awful like call out Rachel’s name during?” Santana asks, because it’s better to just cut him off at the quick than to sit around and wish she was dying a little more.

“What? God, no,” he says, quickly. “Why would--I mean--they look _nothing_ alike and I was drunk but I wasn’t _that_ drunk. It was just a bad idea. She’s--I know she was saving herself, and--”

Santana exhales slowly. “Well, maybe she was done saving herself, or maybe she was saving herself for you. You decide.”

Sam’s silent for a second. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to not be a bitch for like five seconds. She’s your best friend.”

“Sam, we all have fucking problems. You introducing Quinn to the joys of orgasms is _not_ at the top of my list, okay?” she says, and then hangs up.

*

A swell of anger hits her abruptly ten minutes later; Christ, she’s not even looking at or thinking about the postcards, but she’s just so mad about _everything,_ and next thing she knows she’s sent her phone sailing across the room, right into the door frame.

The sound of it crashing to the floor brings Brittany to the doorway.

She doesn’t ask anything stupid like, “Are you okay?”

“ _Dude, Where’s My Car?_ is on,” she says, instead.

Santana feels an overwhelming amount of love for her literally out of nowhere, and just says, “C’mere.”

Brittany hobbles over and then stands in front of her, tall as ever, and Santana reaches around her waist and pulls her into a hug. “I’m sorry I was a bitch.”

“Well, geez, if I’m not used to it by now,” Brittany says, and Santana laughs softly, even though it’s weird, because that’s not something Brittany would’ve _ever_ said to her before.

“Boston’s been good for you,” she murmurs, like that explains everything she’s feeling right now.

“ _Rachel’s_ been good for you,” Brittany responds, running a hand through her hair. “Seriously--are you just mad that she left, or is this a bigger deal than that?”

“I don’t know,” Santana says, pressing her forehead into Brittany’s stomach and sighing softly. “I really just don’t know.”

“Well, you need to figure it out,” Brittany says, quietly. “Because Rachel’s not going to be gone forever, and I’m not going to be here forever, either.”

There’s not much to say in response to that, and so Santana sits still, taking the comfort she’s being offered even if she doesn’t have a clue if she deserves it.

*

Postcard five is the first one that makes her cry; this one just has a night sky on it, and thousands of little stars dotted away in the distance.

_When I think about who I want to spend the rest of my life with, it always boils down to three very simple things:_

_I want to be with someone who supports me when I need to be supported, reproaches me when I’m about to make terrible mistakes, and loves me and my family unconditionally._

_For what it’s worth: if given a choice between us, I’m not even sure Dad would pick me these days._

Rachel’s not playing fair anymore, and that more than anything lets Santana know that her clock is running out. The cards feel like they’re building towards something, and even though it’s been two and a half weeks since she’s last seen Rachel, it’s now starting to feel like she’s just standing around the corner, waiting to toss the last remaining upright pieces of Santana’s life on their head.

And on top of all that, there’s Brittany.

 _you need to come today_ , she texts Quinn, before dropping the postcard to the floor and leaving it there.

*

Quinn arrives just in time for the postman to come, and Santana has the most ridiculous urge to strangle the guy--like it’s _his_ fault that he keeps bringing more and more postcards that are driving her crazy.

It must show on her face, because Quinn gives her a funny look and then finally says, “Oh”, when the postcard is dropped in the Berry/Lopez mailbox.

(And Jesus, that’s never looked weird to her before now, but--)

They lug Quinn’s stuff upstairs, and Quinn takes a few moments to say hi to Britt--and something about the spontaneous and careless way in which they hug rubs Santana completely the wrong way. She doesn’t have the luxury of carelessly hugging anyone, except Quinn, maybe.

She retreats to her bedroom with the postcard, and reads it without hesitation this time, because at least the postcard isn’t going to talk _back_ at her about what she’s doing.

_You’re such a part of my life that it’s hard for me to even remember what I felt like before you were in it, but most of what I’ve written so far is big stuff--whole of life stuff, like how you fit within mine and how I hope I fit within yours. I don’t think you’re ready to think about those things, so here’s a much more basic thought about how we fit together:_

_Thinking about that stupid, cocky smile you get when you think you’re being clever gets me wetter than anything else ever has_.

_If you could talk back to these cards, I’d demand that you tell me what thinking about my legs does for you. (I’m not blind, Santana, and if you actually think that I don’t know that you’ve been looking since at least that pool party at Kurt’s, you’re underestimating me severely.)_

She drops the card like it’s on fire, and then covers her face with both hands before laughing weakly.

Rachel’s _really_ not playing fair, but somehow, this is the easiest card of all to process.

“Fuck _you_ ,” she says, out loud, and then laughs again before picking the card back up and shoving it under the rest of the pile.

When Quinn and Brittany look at her expectantly, she knows she flushes ridiculously on the spot, and then grunts out, “None of your business today.”

Quinn blanches even as Brittany says, “That’s stupid; I read all the other ones.”

“Not this one,” Santana repeats, gulping down some of the last Vitamin Water they have in the fridge without looking at either of them.

*

When nighttime hits, and they’re done playing poker on the coffee table, things suddenly get extremely awkward.

“You two should share a bed,” Brittany finally says, and maybe it’s just the five shots of tequila that are swimming loosely through her system, or the paranoid look that Quinn shoots her way, but suddenly Santana’s a little bit sick of not being able to be friends with her oldest friend.

“Fuck that,” she says, and reaches for Britt’s hand across the table. “We’re all grown ups. I figure we can stop from accidentally humping in the middle of the night.”

“It wouldn’t be accidental,” Brittany says, plainly.

Liquid shoots out of Quinn’s mouth and across the cards.

Santana closes her eyes and counts to five--backwards, from seven--or whatever. “Okay. Yeah. Quinn?”

“We’ll revisit our sleeping arrangements in the morning,” Quinn says, wiping slowly at her mouth.

“Yeah, good. That sounds great,” Santana says, dropping Brittany’s hand, and--man, Brittany’s legs. God, what is it about her and legs. Brittany’s legs, and Rachel’s legs.

She glances at Quinn’s.

… yeah, those are safe.

“ _Why_ are you staring at my legs?” Quinn asks, before nudging her in the chin until she looks up.

“Just making sure you hadn’t grown,” Santana mumbles, and then links their arms together. “C’mon. If you snore I’m smothering you.”

“As long as it’s not with your tits...”

“Quinn _Fabray_ ,” Santana says, before laughing and looking at Brittany, who grins back at her--and fucking hell, if only everything could be this simple.

Brittany, she can say no to, and things between them will be as they always have been. Rachel?

“I’m going to pay for this tomorrow,” she mumbles, and wonders if Rachel’s going to send her another smutty card, or if she’s just going to go straight for the bone from now on.

Everything is coming to a head, and she knows that they’re only five days away from the start of the Chicago summer school, which is when--well.

She has no idea what to expect, except that when Quinn takes off a shirt in front of her, she almost hugs her in gratitude for it just _not_ meaning a fucking thing.

*

She wakes up the next day with a mouthful of Quinn’s hair, and then something hits her.

“You cut it again,” she asks, blearily. “I thought you hated it short.”

“It grew on me,” Quinn mumbles into the pillow.

There’s a lot of things that aren’t being said there, and Santana frowns before reaching past Quinn for her Blackberry.

“What are you--”

“Are you for real right now?” Santana asks, before showing Quinn her own outbox.

Quinn reaches for the phone and tosses it back onto the nightstand. “It’s not what you think.”

“Uh, what I think is that you are blowing up Sam’s phone like he’s your new squeeze.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not,” Quinn says, shortly, before flipping onto her back.

Santana stares at her questioningly for a moment, and then, without warning, her hangover kicks in with a vengeance. She drops her head back to the pillow and says, “Talk.”

“He’s …” Quinn says, and then hangs on that one word.

It sounds a lot like _Rachel_..., and Santana stills completely.

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me,” she then says, as sharply as she can.

“I’m not--God, don’t be ridiculous,” Quinn says, covering her eyes with her arm. “I just want to get past it. It was …”

“Bad sex?” Santana asks, carefully.

Quinn’s lips smile in a way that seems unwilling, and the smile drops as quickly as it shows. “No. I mean. This is none of your business.”

“Q, for God’s sake, it’s not like I haven’t …”

“Okay, and _that_ is something I really don’t need to be reminded of.”

“Fuck, just about everyone in this apartment has slept with the guy, all I’m saying is that it’s not--”

“Yeah, well, maybe it fucking _was_ to me,” Quinn snaps, and Santana shuts up as soon as the f-word registers, because... damn.

“You were both drunk,” she points out, when Quinn won’t look at her or say anything else, and just starts chewing on her lip.

“Yeah, and so what? You and Rachel were both hysterical _and_ lying through your teeth about what you were doing,” Quinn says, not without venom. “Are you going to tell me that that meant nothing, too?”

God, she forgets what a bitch Quinn can be, now that they live so far apart and aren’t so up in each other’s business anymore.

“It’s not the same.”

“Of _course_ it’s not. Rachel’s head over heels in love with you, and Sam’s head over heels in love with _her_ ,” Quinn snaps.

It breaks something in both of them, and Santana squeezes her eyes shut and turns her head away, but not before she can hear Quinn sniff loudly, once, and then say, “I would just like it to not have been about her. And maybe, if he and I can build a friendship or something, it _won’t_ have been about her.”

A terrifying question hangs in Santana’s mind, and because her head’s splitting apart and she’s already swallowing tears anyway, it just flows out of her. “Q--if … if...” It hangs there, and then finally she just pushes out the part of the question that matters. “Is it going to be you or Rachel?”

Quinn says nothing for a long time, and then finally says, “I’ll always be here, but...”

It’s a basic repeat of what Rachel said to her that day when Kurt and Blaine left; but it’s _so_ much worse now.

*

She doesn’t go and get postcard number seven until the next day.

It’s just _too_ much.

*

Brittany and Quinn head off to go do something together and she has no idea what; they told her, but she’s too busy staring at a calendar in Rachel’s bedroom, and the date marked there as the start of summer school.

An hour proofreading something for her internship on Rachel’s desk later, and the urge to go downstairs and get the cards is almost suffocating her.

She doesn’t want to see them. But God, she _needs_ to.

Every single one of Rachel’s words has only screwed with her head more, to the point where she now lies awake for hours each night, next to a snoring Quinn, wondering which parts of the things she remembers are true and which are just completely wrong.

Moments of hanging out with Rachel in the apartment, just fucking about or cleaning or something--it was them being _best friends_ , but now, in Rachel’s words, it was never just that. But--does it change shit for her just because _Rachel_ wasn’t on the same page? Is that how this is going to work?

The only thing that will shut her up is more of Rachel’s words, and so she skids down the stairs on her socks and props the mailbox open, only to find only one card there.

She frowns, but pulls it out anyway and reads it.

_The last year has been incredibly difficult for me. I’ve never been anything short of the best at what I do, but with the choices I’ve made (and I can concede now that they were beyond stupid), everything about me that’s special has slowly been whittled away. Without my ego, and my talent, I’ve found out that I’m still not much more than but an insecure girl who got picked on a lot for being different. I’m working on it, but it’s going to take time, and I don’t want you to take it personally because this isn’t about anything you did in high school. It just is._

_Even so, I’m not insecure enough to actually believe that you slept with me just to make me feel better, even if that’s what we said we were doing that night. I wanted you, plain and simple. And I think that if you weren’t so terrified of what it would mean, you would be able to say the same to me._

She almost crumples the card, and then jolts when the front door opens and the mail guy shows up.

“You have a postcard for me,” she says, holding out her hand for it. He blinks at her in surprise but then rifles through his bag and hands it over, glancing at the surrounding mail.

“You also have some bills--”

“Just drop them in the box,” she says, and heads back to the apartment, where she goes straight to Rachel’s room and sits down on Rachel’s bed and reads card number eight, because it’s not numbered eight.

It’s numbered _8/8_.

_I’ve said too many things; I’ve told you that you’re my home, my past, and hopefully my future; I’ve told you that I want you, in every sense of the word; and I’ve admitted that I made some terrible decisions and that I’m a work in progress. Still, I’ve missed out on probably the two most important things that I actually have been meaning to say._

_I love you._

_And I’m sorry._

_See you tomorrow._

*

She wakes up when Quinn shakes her shoulder, looking at her with some concern.

She mutely hands over the eighth postcard, and then feels her face; dried tear tracks are stuck there, and she has to swallow twice before she can even ask what time it is.

“Tomorrow--as in _tomorrow?_ ” Quinn asks, without answering the question.

“I have no idea,” Santana confesses, because these postcard--God knows how long they’ve been underway. They’re sent from all over the place, like Puck and Rachel are just inching over to California one day at a time.

Quinn looks at the postcard again, her mouth twisting for a moment, and then she sits down next to Santana with a sigh. “Don’t let me make this decision for you.”

“See, that’s where I’m stuck on this,” Santana says, wiping at her face and reaching for the card.

“What?”

“The part where it’s a decision,” Santana says, before taking a deep breath. “The part where--I’m so fucking unhappy right now, but there’s two choices for me to make, and like--I don’t know, Quinn. This was a lot easier when I was actually just convinced I was going to die without Brittany.”

Quinn glances at the door for a moment, and then softly says, “You only feel that way once; it stops when you realize that moving on won’t actually kill you.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Santana admits, after another pause. “I mean--Rachel’s... I don’t know what I’d do in the city without her. I do _everything_ with her. But--”

“What are you stuck on?” Quinn asks, placing a hand on her shoulderblade. “Is it being into her, or being _with_ her?”

That’s the only easy question to answer, in all of this. “The latter. She’s--God, if you laugh I am actually going to kill you, but... there’s just always been something about her. I mean, it’s not just me. Look at all your boyfriends.”

Quinn rolls her eyes but otherwise lets it go. “I’d tell you you’re an ass, but it’s not like we’re not going to have to talk about your hang-ups about relationships, and I’m pretty sure that’s going to make you feel crappier than anything else could.”

“I just don’t--she’s my _best friend,_ ” Santana says, and she feels that tremble in her lip that means this is all going to go down hill. “How has it been three years, and I’m still just choosing between my best friend and something more?”

Quinn shakes her head and says, “I don’t know, hon. Maybe because with the way you do friendships, there’s not that much between that and more. I mean, if I was even remotely gay, we would’ve been dating for years now.”

Santana sighs and leans back into the hand on her back a little bit more. “I’m not ready for her to come back. I thought--I didn’t want her to go, but then she did, and now I’m just--shit, what the fuck am I even going to say to her?”

Quinn almost laughs, but then just says, “It’s _Rachel_. I wouldn’t worry about filling silences.”

They sit together silently for a moment and then Santana rubs at her eyes and says, “I told Britt to come find me.”

“In what way?”

“If she ever broke up with Artie. I made her promise to come find me, last year, and I meant it. I meant every word of it. And now she’s here.”

The hand on her back stills, and Quinn exhales noisily, lifting her bangs from her forehead for a moment. “And?”

“And--” Santana says, but before she can even complete that thought, the doorbell rings.

Her heart stops, and lodges in her throat, and she can hear Brittany pad towards the door, her walk still heavily preferring one leg, and then all that’s left is the sound she’s waiting for.

“Hey, Britt,” Rachel says, softly, from the other side of a wall.

There’s a muffled squeal and then some laughter that doesn’t sound like it comes from Rachel, and Quinn leans backwards until she can peer through the doorway to the hallway and then mouths, “It’s _Mike_ ” at Santana.

She has no idea what’s even going on anymore, but her time is up anyway, because Rachel is in front of her seconds later, and Quinn steels herself so quickly that Santana almost jolts forward.

“Quinn--”

“So help me God, if you don’t know what you’re doing, I am throwing your ass out the door and personally helping it down the stairs,” Quinn says, with so much buried anger that Santana would have smiled if she wasn’t staring at Rachel’s legs; tanned, in cut-off jean shorts, and--

Rachel _completely_ ignores Quinn, and then crouches down in front of Santana and catches her eyes after a moment. Rachel’s own eyes are shining conspicuously, and Santana swallows against yet another lump in her throat, glancing away after a moment.

“Get out,” Rachel breathes at Quinn, whose hand tenses for a second, but then she does get up and close the door behind her.

They sit like that for almost five minutes, and then Rachel finally takes a deep breath and says, “I’m in love with you.”

*

It’s the only thing that she _hasn’t_ said in her postcards.

It’s the only thing that Santana really just doesn’t want to hear.

She stares at her hands, on her lap, and then closes her eyes for a long moment, willing some words to come to her. But before they can, Rachel has more. More words about how this is going to change everything-- _no shit_ \--and how there isn’t any rush on anything because she’s going to be in Chicago for the next two months anyway, and how it’s okay if Santana isn’t sure of what she wants, but that she hopes-- _hopes_ \--that her cards have fixed at least some of the things that she’s screwed up, and if not she’ll spend the rest of her life trying.

It ends with, “I don’t need anything from you right now other than honesty”, and then a hesitant reach for her hands.

“Do you think... you could ever be with me?” Rachel asks, and Santana’s heart _hurts_. It actually hurts in ways that it hasn’t since junior year of high school, when she more or less told it to take a fucking hike and pretended that it didn’t exist for another two years.

It scares the shit out of her, and before she can help herself, the words slip from her mouth.

“You’ve ruined _everything_.”

The room is deadly silent for a few seconds, and then Rachel’s getting to her feet, slowly and wobbly.

“I--” she starts to say, but then just shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, because even though sleeping with you was stupid, I don’t regret it at the end of the day. I don’t regret forcing this, because I _am_ in love with you, and I think you’re kidding yourself if you don’t want to admit that there’s something here for you too. You didn’t just sleep with me, Santana--you made love to--”

“Get out,” she says; the words wrench out of her chest, and then when she looks at Rachel, all of her other words finally spill over. “Just _get out_. What did you think, that you could put down some words on a postcard and it would make up for what you did?”

“I--”

“You _left me_ ,” Santana bites out, and fuck, she’s crying; this isn’t at all how she wanted this to go. “You manipulated me into sleeping with you, and then when I did, you fucking _bailed_ on me. You think that’s what love’s about?”

“No,” Rachel starts to say, but Santana just shakes her head.

“You know what, Rachel? I don’t think you have a clue. I don’t think you have _any_ idea what you’re talking about. My fucking _roommate_ wouldn’t have done any of this shit to me, and now you’re telling me that that wasn’t even my roommate, but someone who’s been in love with me for what, a year? Longer than that?”

Rachel stares at her mutely for a moment and then finally drops her eyes. “I shouldn’t have come back. It’s too soon--”

“No. It’s too fucking _late_ ,” Santana grits out, and then gets off the bed and brushes past her, only stopping when Rachel pulls on her arm.

“You’re furious with me, but you wouldn’t be furious with me if there wasn’t something--”

She has to stop herself from slamming Rachel into a wall, and ends up just shoving her off with a snap of her arm. “Yeah, there is something here. There’s the fact that you just made the decision about who I’m going to live with a year from now a hell of a lot easier, Rachel, because Quinn would have _never_ done this to me.”

“I know you like to draw parallels there, because she’s your best friend too, but Quinn does not and will never feel the way about you that I do,” Rachel says, not looking away, and fuck, _fuck_ , Santana can’t handle her eyes right now; she’s so Bambi, and they’re saying so many things that she couldn’t believe, even when they were spilled on a postcard.

“Yeah, and that’s a bad thing how?” Santana forces out, running the back of her hand past her eyes, more to block Rachel from view than to wipe away any stray tears. “It’s not from where I’m sitting, because your fucking feelings have ruined _everything_ we had going for us here. And I just--I--I just need you to leave.”

Something finally cracks through Rachel’s composure, and when she sucks in a deep breath, it’s wet-sounding, like all of her tears are stuck in her lungs and just now working their way up. “Okay,” she then says.

“No, it’s _not_ okay,” Santana says, and wills herself to hold it together for just a few more seconds, because Jesus, her grip on everything is slipping. “Just--just get out. And find somewhere else to live at the end of the summer. God, I can’t even look at you.”

A wounded noise leaves Rachel’s mouth, completely without permission, and it nails Santana right in the chest in a way that all her words didn’t. Her hands clench into fists next to her, and she turns away, waiting for the sound of the door to open, and waiting for--

But then Rachel just pulls on her arm and fuck, _fuck_ , she’s kissing her and this isn’t like before, when it was mostly about want; she doesn’t even know how to respond to it because this is probably the softest, most broken kiss she’s ever received from anyone, and when Rachel pulls away and just says, “I love you. And I’m sorry” before heading out the door, something in her literally caves.

She sinks down on the floor next to the bed and waits for someone to come find her, and when Quinn finally does, she hurts all over again.

“Just don’t; whatever it is you want to say about her, just don’t,” she says, just in time, before she starts crying harder than she has in years.

“Oh, Santana,” Quinn just says, easing down next to her, and pulling her into a hug.

*

Brittany and Mike find them there, just like that, and when Brittany pulls her up off the floor, into a hug that turns into a carry, and drags her back to her own bedroom, nobody says a thing.

She falls asleep with Brittany’s breath against her neck, and Brittany’s arm around her waist, and cries until she literally can’t feel a thing anymore.

It answers a question that she hasn’t wanted to think about anyway:

She’s not in love with Rachel, because being in love could _never_ feel this fucking awful when it’s completely mutual.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to everyone waiting patiently. Your support for this story has been invaluable; I am a lucky, lucky author.

So.

*

She wakes up the next morning, wrapped up in Brittany’s arms.

She feels like she’s choking, and muscles out of them without even asking if Britt’s awake, only to stumble into the living room and find a shirtless Mike Chang on her couch.  He blinks at her blearily and then makes a move to cover up his body with one of Rachel’s sheets--and it’s pink and polka dotted; on any other day, Santana would’ve laughed--until she just rolls her eyes and walks past him to the kitchen.

Quinn’s cutting up some fruit with quick, methodological movements, and then finally hands Santana a slice of watermelon.

“You’re dehydrated,” she says, softly, without looking her in the eye.  “And there’s another postcard.  It’s on the coffee table.”

The water melon’s too sweet; she sucks on it for a second anyway, and then carefully walks over to the coffee table to see Rachel’s last words.

They stick with her much longer than any of the other ones do, and in the end all she can do is take a shower until she feels like she can face her friends again.

*

When she gets out again, Brittany’s stretching up against the breakfast bar and Mike’s behind her, muscling her through the movement.

“How come you’re here?” Santana asks, not bothering with being nice about it; Chang has known her since they were freshman and if he can’t handle her now, there’s a front door right there with his name on it.

Quinn shoots her a slightly exasperated look anyway, but then scoots over on the couch until Santana can sit down.  (She doesn’t sit in the chair; it’s not her chair.)

“Just needed a change, and--” Mike starts to say, before hesitating.

“I’m not going to kill you if you say her name,” Santana says, and it _almost_ comes out normally.  “She lived here for a while.  She was my best friend for longer than that.  Like--she exists, okay?”

Nobody says anything for a long moment, and then Mike clears his throat and manipulates Brittany’s knee again.  “Well, Rachel could’ve done with the company since Puck’s not going back to Columbus.”

“Wait, _what_?” Quinn asks, sharply.

“He’s--he’s crashing with Mercedes.  Looking to start a band, I think,” MIke says, awkwardly.

Quinn’s off the couch in moments, phone in hand, and Santana just shakes her head because, _really_.  This isn’t any more Quinn’s business than it’s hers, but she guesses that maybe that whole there’s a baby in Ohio aspect of it changes things?

Everything is so fucking screwed up; that’s the only part of it that’s actually true, and when Brittany yelps softly and Mike apologies before relaxing his hands, Santana just closes her eyes and counts backwards--to ten, and then to ten days ago--and then to one month ago, when she still had everything she’d ever wanted from life, and none of it demanded anything from her.

*

Quinn’s internship, like Santana’s, mostly takes place online; they sit together in the living room, legs folded Indian-style, and Quinn scans pages and pages of advertising slogans before finally picking a few out and writing commentary on them.  Santana’s still just editing away, and half the time she has absolutely no idea what she’s reading.

With Mike’s arrival, Brittany seems to have gotten something _she_ needs, which is someone who understands that dancing is her life and that her sore knee is killing her, and they head out places together--the private gym two blocks down, as soon as Britt’s parents have sent some money over, and then a dance studio four blocks down; on the way out, Mike always cautions her to not try too many classical ballet movements because the stretch on the bar will put too much tension on her knee, and Brittany always smiles and says, “I _know_ ”, and--

She and Britt still sleep together, in the same bed, half the time.  But lately, Santana’s just been wondering what it’s like to be the big spoon for a change.  Little spoon?  It’s just not in her nature.  Maybe it never was--and with Quinn, the height difference isn’t so big, so Quinn doesn’t mind when she flips them around.

Quinn never minds anything, actually, and neither does Brittany, but--

Santana slips her glasses off and drops them onto her laptop.

“What does it mean when you get something you’ve always wanted--like, seriously, you’ve wanted this for forever, and when it’s finally there it’s just...” she starts to say, before trailing off when Quinn holds up a hand and clicks on a few more pictures of grape soda.

She shuts her laptop lid after a moment and then looks at Santana.  “Are you finally ready to have a real conversation about what you’re doing with your life right now?”

“I don’t know,” Santana says, picking at a cuticle and then shoving her laptop onto the floor and tipping her head back onto the couch.  “I mean--it’s you and me.  Is this something we do now?”

Quinn chuckles softly and then says, “Whatever, Santana.  We don’t have to hold hands and talk about our feelings.  My tough love bucket overfloweth.”

Santana feebly gestures with her hand and then, out of nowhere, it’s like fifteen year old Quinn is back in front of her, outlining the new social hierarchy to her in a quick, emotionless bark

“You are screwing _everything_ up for yourself.”

Santana blinks her eyes open and says, “There isn’t anything else for me to screw up.”

“Isn’t there?  What is going on with you and Brittany?” Quinn asks, sharply.

Santana glances at the elastic band draped over the armrest of Rachel’s chair, and then just shrugs.  “I don’t know. It’s Britt.  I asked her come, and then she did, and--”

“And _what_ , Santana?  Because--honestly, you’re not the only person who cares about her, and with the way you’re trying to have your cake and eat it too these days, I’m starting to think that maybe some of us care about her more than you do right now.”

It’s a heavy, calculated low blow; it’s a reminder that nobody is in elementary anymore, and that people might’ve been calling Brittany stupid for an entire year now, if not longer, and she wouldn’t have known or done a thing about it.

“I just can’t get things straight in my head,” she finally says.  When Quinn snorts, she rolls her eyes and says, “You know what I mean.”

“So _this_ is because of Rachel, too,” Quinn asks, and there’s that nervous edge to her voice.

Santana licks her lips and then finally stares at the postcard still on the coffee table.  “Yeah.  This is because of Rachel, too.”

Quinn says nothing for a long time, but then finally reaches for her laptop and goes back to work.

“We’re not done talking,” Santana says, surprised, and then shuts up abruptly when Quinn looks at her.

“Until you can admit you have serious feelings for Rachel Berry, there really isn’t anything else for us to say to each other,” Quinn says.

The bitterness is overwhelming, and Quinn’s mouse pad movements are so jerkily and angry that she accidentally deletes two paragraphs, curses, and then replaces them again.

“Maybe I could admit that I have... _something_ , if it didn’t mean that you would back the fuck out of my life and leave me with absolutely nothing to fall back on,” Santana says, watching her hit ctrl-z until all of the text is back.

“If you really believed you had _something_ , you wouldn’t care about how I felt about it,” Quinn says, biting her lip for a moment, and then adding, “It sure as hell didn’t stop you from sleeping with Brittany when I asked you to stop because Coach was sniffing around during sophomore year, so I mean, figure it _out_ , Santana.  And don’t try to pin this on me.”

It would be really great if slapping Quinn and her dumb lesbian haircut would actually resolve any of the shit going on in her mind, but it won’t.

Instead, she sighs and says, “I want to go to Pittsburgh for a bit.  I just need a break.”

Quinn glances over.  “Is that an invitation?”

Santana sighs and says, “Mi casa es su casa, Fabray.  You know that.”

“And are you bringing Brittany?” Quinn presses, and Santana lifts her laptop back off the floor with something between a grunt and another sigh.

“No.”  

The part she doesn’t add is where her mother adores Rachel, and where she doesn’t really know if she could talk about the things she _needs_ to talk about if her past was hovering over her shoulder in quite so literal a way.

*

Pittsburgh is a good idea, even if all it offers is a break from the city, and when Quinn suggests that they just let Mike and Brittany stay in the apartment, it’s also a go.

Then, without prompting, Quinn calls Sam, and Santana almost loses it at the side of the conversation she gets to hear:

“Hey... No, I’m not--I promise.  I’m not calling about--no.  Stop apologizing.  Sam.   _Sam,_ will you shut up?  Sorry.  I didn’t mean to say that. … Well, if you’d stop being so afraid of me then maybe... she’s not _here_ , Sam.  …. no.  She’s gone all summer.  … Yeah.  Okay.  Well.  Santana and I are going home to see Mom--”

And that’s when she loses track of the conversation altogether, and just takes two steps forward and pulls Quinn into a tight hug.

“Please don’t make me choose,” she whispers against her shoulder, and when Quinn stiffens, she knows she said it just a little bit too loudly.

It takes Quinn a minute of rolling her eyes and yelling at Sam to stop being a moron to relax, but when she does, Santana feels like she can actually start figuring out what comes next.

*

Sam’s gotten a haircut, and Quinn literally falters in a step when she sees him with his new hair.

He shrugs at the look on their faces and says, “It’s been six months.  I figure if getting it all chopped off works for girls, maybe it’ll work for me, too.”

“It’s so...” Quinn starts to say, before blinking and tilting her head.  “Dark.  Did you stop putting the lemon juice in it?”

Sam stares at her for a moment, and then stares at Santana, who bites the inside of her cheek to not start laughing.

“I’m almost twenty, okay.  I just figure that--maybe I don’t need to work so hard on being cool anymore,” he says, and then pops the trunk.  “By the way, this is an eight hour drive, so I reserve the right to veto any terrible music.  There will be no terrible chick country in my car.”

Quinn sighs and says, “Fine.”

Santana just looks between them and fights the urge to roll her eyes, because--God help her, eight hours with these two cabbage patch kids in a car together?

*

Within the second hour of the drive, Quinn’s talked Sam into listening to some Whiskeytown and they’re playing punch buggy in the front.

Santana wants to die a little; it’s close to being as bad as that drive back to Lima with Rachel, even though nobody’s going to start weeping hysterically in this car and she’s not going to have to hug someone on a McDonald’s bathroom floor again.

It’s _good_.  Which doesn’t explain why, the minute she thought about it, everything in her head started swimming again.

Then, she just closes her eyes and listens to the .. the what, the bickering?  The conversation?  She can’t even tell if they’re arguing or not; it’s her default setting, but with these two, she really has no idea.  When they last dated, she and Quinn were completely on the outs, and the only thing she remembers about their relationship is how easy it had been to convince Sam that Quinn was a conniving bitch who would break his heart.

Maybe she feels a little bad about that now.  But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true then.

“Alt country isn’t the same thing as proper country at all,” Quinn says, with a frown.  “You wouldn’t get normal country at South by South West.”

“Which is seriously underrated, by the way.  My parents took me to the CMAs a few years ago; great party.  Seriously.  Kenny Chesney knows how to organize a hoe-down,” Sam says, seriously.

Quinn snorts after a moment, and then Sam says, “Just kidding, but--I mean, if you really think _Austin_ is _Texas_ , I need to drag you over there for the real experience sometime.”

“Puck was recently there,” Quinn says, quietly.  She says something else, but Santana tunes out again, because _Puck was recently there..._ yeah, that’s only half the story.

The part that’s not added is ‘with Rachel’, because that opens up a can of worms, and fuck it.  Sam is _such_ a great guy.  He deserves to know, but he deserves a complete answer.  Santana’s pretty sure that he’d just lay her out if she started and ended with “I slept with Rachel and now I can barely look at her.”

That’s not even the truth.

The truth is that the longer she looks at Rachel, the harder it becomes for her to remember why things can’t go back to how they were--but they _can’t_ , and she just can’t bring herself to think that they could go anywhere else either.  Rachel’s fucking straight as a pole, and Rachel’s lonely and sad and upset about how her entire life has turned into one big fucking disappointment, and Rachel’s just latching onto the first thing she’s seen in a while.

All this crap about Rachel having been in love with her for over a year now....

She can’t _actually_ be that stupid, can she?  She would’ve known.  

The only part that doesn’t sound like it’s just Rachel rewriting parts of their history to make sense of what she wants is the part about Kurt’s pool party, and she feels her heart rate spike at just the thought of Rachel in that bikini.  (One of the greatest joys of living in New York is that there are basically no appropriate places to wear those--because--well--shit, she has no idea what she’s even thinking.)

 _She’d_ been horny as fuck.  She’s not above admitting that, because hey, sex is sex.  But that still doesn’t mean that that same day opened up any fucking doors for _Rachel_ , and--

“Hey, do you guys remember that pool party at Kurt’s?” she says, cutting into their ongoing discussion of Texan summer fashion (and really, Sam Evans needs to locate his balls somewhere before he turns into Quinn’s _girlfriend_ ).

Quinn says, “Yeah?” and turns over a bit to look at Santana.

Sam blushes to the tips of his ears and almost off-roads, until Quinn yanks on the steering wheel and gets them back in the lane again.

“Uh.  Yeah.  Good party,” Sam mumbles.

Santana closes her eyes and curses herself for even double-checking, because that’s the sound of a nice guy who doesn’t kiss and tell having had a memorable night with his girlfriend.

 _Fuck_.

*

They get lost on the way to her mother’s new place, partially because she’d given them directions to an address, and Quinn starts snapping at Sam, who just rolls his eyes at her and reverses back onto the main road down town.

In the end, they pull up to a KFC for some dinner, and Quinn heads off to get their order while Sam and Santana stare down some teenagers until they get a table.

She’s missed him.  It’s a weird thing to think, but he was a really relaxed and positive presence in their apartment and it’s sucked not having him around.

Not that she’ll ever tell him that; instead, she just watches as he glances towards Quinn every once in a while, before sighing and looking at the table in front of them.

“How is she?” he finally asks.

She feels terrible almost immediately, but has to try anyway.  “Who--Q?”

“No.  I know how Quinn is, she texts me like, every third day,” he mumbles, and then glances up with a worried look on his face.  “Just about--work and stuff.  It’s nothing--”

“Sam.  I don’t care,” Santana says, as gently as she can, because she doesn’t.  Not until Quinn can figure out if _she_ does, and she’s not waiting around for the goddamned apocalypse on that one to start.

“I meant-- _her_ ,” he says, and then rubs at his cheek with his knuckles.  “Quinn says she’s at some program in Chicago.”

“Yeah,” Santana says, and watches how his entire body shrinks in on himself.

 _That’s_ what love looks like.  The inability to even say someone’s name.  A complete meltdown just at the thought of them _doing_ something stupid like attending summer school.  That’s what the last three years of her life have been like.

Except they’re not anymore, because now she can think things like, Brittany and Mike are probably at the local pool racing laps or something, and all it brings to mind is Brittany dancing again, someday, hopefully.

They’re not anymore, but when Sam looks up and says, “Is she happy?  Without me?”, Santana feels her gut wrench terribly, like she’s eating something terrible and it’s stuck inside of her forever.

“She’s fine,” she says, and it comes out as unconvincing as anything she’s ever said.  “Starting at Tisch in the fall, so I mean.  Everything’s turning out as it’s supposed to.”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she knows she’s said the wrong thing, and Sam almost runs Quinn down with how quickly he’s up out of his seat and off towards the men's bathroom.

“Shit,” Santana says, and bites on her lip as Quinn sits down next to her and starts distributing wings and popcorn chicken between them.

“You didn’t _tell_ him, did you?” Quinn asks, giving her a pointed look.  “Because--there’s a time and a place, Santana, and it’s probably after you’ve decided what you want and _not_ in a KFC.”

“Of course I didn’t tell him,” Santana snaps at her, and then angrily pulls a wing apart.  “He just--asked about her, and I said something stupid.”

“Oh,” Quinn says, flatly, and--

“Fuck, are you _kidding me_?” Santana asks, before elbowing Quinn in the side.  “Have some dignity.  He’s allowed to _ask_ after her.  They dated for almost two years.  Jesus.”

“I just--want him to get over her.  Not because of _me_ , but because.... he can do better than be with her,” Quinn says, quietly.

Santana feels something hot and red spike in her brain, and turns to Quinn more fully.  “You know, I have absolutely just _had it_ up to here with your petty bullshit about Rachel.  No matter what else is going on, she is one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and unlike your ungrateful ass, wouldn’t throw me under a bus if it meant personal advancement.”

Quinn’s eyes narrow, and then she says, pointedly, “I meant that he can do better than be with someone who doesn’t _love him_.  But feel free to keep taking everything I say about Rachel very personally.  It’s doing an excellent job of showing how much her feelings for you are one-sided.”

The _fuck you_ is at the tip of her tongue, but then Sam slides into the seat in front of them again and steals the bag of popcorn chicken.

“Sorry,” he says, with just a glance to Santana.  “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No--it’s my fault,” Santana says, after a moment; then, she gently kicks him in the shin.  “Should’ve known you’d be a total chick about everything, though.  You don’t stand a chance, not with those lips.”

He rolls his eyes at her and pelts a bit of chicken across the table; Quinn snatches it out from in front of her face with ridiculous reflexes, and then eats it.

The laughter’s a little bit forced, but--maybe not entirely.

Santana figures that this is what family is like; even when you want to slap the shit out of every single person at the table, you can’t help but love them, too.

*

Her mom looks good.

It’s a stupid thing to think, and Santana’s not exactly sure what she was expecting, but not this; a woman in casual linen pants and a loose top greeting them barefoot at the door to an apartment, before hugging Quinn easily, then hugging Sam after a moment of hesitation, and finally actually pulling Santana in for something that resembles a cuddle.

“I’m glad you came.  It’s been a little lonely,” her mom whispers in her ear, and Santana’s hands tighten around the top almost automatically.

It’s a little bit much, though, after so many years of not really knowing each other at all, and when Quinn calls out, “Wait, Maria, are you doing pilates now?” in her casually excited voice, Santana’s grateful for the break.

She watches as Sam lugs their carrier bags--all McKinley High sports, because those bags are incredibly durable and spacious thanks to Coach Sylvester’s endorsement strategies--down the hallway, looking for the guest bedroom, and watches as her mother and Quinn talk about some sort of Jane Fonda exercise DVD (or something), and then looks around the apartment with its light colors, knickknacks and--

Her feet move her over automatically, because right by the breakfast nook, there’s a wall that’s just pictures of _her_ at various stages of development--as a baby, gurgling at something with laughter, and then as an eight year old, when she’d been shortstop in her little league team, and as a twelve year old, missing a few teeth and running away from the garden hose, and... then there’s a few of her and Quinn, on their way to Prom and at graduation.  

Quinn shows up at her side a moment later, and when Santana glances over, there’s tears in her eyes.

“Hey.  I’m sorry,” she finally says, softly; there’s a conversation at the other end of the house, where Sam is probably asking how the world of asses is these days--that charmer--and it’s not like anyone will hear, but she still can’t say it in more than a whisper.

“Why did it have to be her?” Quinn finally asks, in response, before wiping at her eyes.  

“Q--”

“Of all the girls in the world, Santana,” Quinn says, shaking her head, and then laughing wetly.  “I just don’t know what you expect me to do or say.  She screwed with every relationship I’ve ever been in; she’s obnoxious, and self-involved, and so conceited sometimes that I just want to hit her.   I don’t know if she’ll be good for you, because she really wasn’t for Sam, and--”

“Q--just stop,” Santana says, hesitating for a second and then wrapping an arm around her waist.  “I don’t know if--I don’t know if I want to go there, or if I even can, okay?  But what I do know is that it’s not about you, and it’s not going to change anything between us.”

“Santana, if she’s your--”

“I won’t _let it_ ,” Santana says, emphatically, and then glances down the hallway.  “Although shit would get really awkward if you started dating her ex-boyfriend, but--”

“God,” Quinn sighs, and then half-heartedly crosses herself.

Santana starts snickering, and that turns into actual laughter, and Quinn just sort of shoves her off; but then gives her a serious look anyway.

“Have you thought about what this is going to do to him?”

“Yeah,” Santana says, and looks back at the wall of pictures.  There’s one of her and Rachel that Rachel had gotten Matthew, their neighbor across the hall, to take right after they’d moved in.  Rachel’s beaming, as she always is in pictures, and she herself is sort of rolling her eyes at the entire process, but her body language...

Quinn takes a deep breath and says, “You look good together.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Santana mutters.

Quinn laughs a little and then sighs.  “... I’ll get over it.  Eventually.”

“Quinn, I still don’t know--”

“Oh, for God’s sake.  If you didn’t know that there’s _something_ going on between you and Berry that wasn’t just a one-time mistake, you wouldn’t be so screwed up about it.  But then there’s Britt, and I guess the real question is whether or not you can finally be honest with yourself about what you want, or if taking the easy way out is _still_ what you do best.”

Quinn gives her one more pointed look, and then heads off to the bedrooms, complimenting the color schemes with the accent walls and then laughing at something Sam says.

Santana looks at the pictures one more time, but the unfortunately the mess in her head isn’t made any clearer by the fact that even in pictures taken _months_ before anything happened, she’s subconsciously leaning into Rachel--and Rachel is subconsciously leaning in to her.

*

Sam and Quinn head out the next day to go and do some nonsense together; he’d muttered something about an indie comic book store and Quinn had said something about going shopping, and Santana watches them awkwardly pass by each other in the doorway while drinking some coffee in the breakfast nook.

Her mother sits down in front of her and raises an eyebrow.  “So.  I know we don’t talk about _everything_ , and mostly just email about the big events, but--last time I saw you it was Rachel this and Rachel that, and now you don’t look like you’re sleeping much, mija.”

Santana carefully puts the mug down on the table and then rubs at her forehead, and her temples.  “What’s your question?”

“I’m not sure,” her mother says, spreading some more butter on toast and then taking a careful, measured bite.  “Is there a question there at all?”

This isn’t exactly the first big conversation she’s dying to have with her mother, but--maybe this is just the one that she’s going to have.

“We... Rachel and I had...” she starts to say, and then stops, staring at the murky coffee in her mug, because she doesn’t want her mother to start thinking _Rachel’s_ easy, and how else can she describe what happened between them?

“Santana, I can guess from the look on your face.  How do you kids put it these days?  You hooked up?”

The laughter scares her with how quickly it comes up, but seriously--her mother just said _hooked up_.  “Um.  Yeah.  Well, we hooked up, and … things got kind of bad after that.”

“Because she’s … not gay?” her mother asks, carefully.

Santana hesitates.  “Well, no, I mean.  She _says_....”  Her brain just stops altogether, because--has Rachel actually said _anything_ about this?  She’s not even sure, but when her mother’s looking at her questioningly, she just shrugs and says, “She um, goes both ways.  I think.”

“Oh,” her mother says, and breaks off another piece of toast.  Santana drinks some more coffee while she can, because having to explain this to someone who wasn’t _there_ for most of it--shit, she’s not really sure she’s awake enough for it.  “So--what’s the problem?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, you’re gay, and you love her; and she’s apparently fond of you as well, so....”

Santana stares at her mother blankly.  “What, it’s that simple?”

“You’re both very lovely girls, mija.  I don’t see why it would have to be complicated,” her mother says, raising both eyebrows.  “Rachel is such a wonderful person; she takes care of you, and she has so much talent... and she’s very attractive.  Look at her smile.”

There’s a nudge towards that picture on the wall again, and Santana sort of bristles and blushes simultaneously.  “Okay, what are you, a dating service?  I don’t need people _selling_ Rachel to me.  I just--it’s not that easy, Mom.”

“Because you’re scared,” her mother says, with some determination.  “Because just like your father, you are a coward about love.”

“I--” Santana starts to say, and then just shuts up, because this is the most parenting she’s been subjected to since she was thirteen, and yet she still knows better than to stop her mother.

“Let me tell you a story,” her mother says, leaning back on her chair and cupping her own mug to her chest.  “Okay?  In this story, there is a man called Carlos, and you’re right, he is your Daddy--”

“Mom, for crying out loud,” Santana mumbles, but there’s really no stopping this once it gets going.

“--this man called Carlos, he fell in love with a beautiful, talented woman.”

“Named Maria?” Santana asks, dryly.

Her mother smiles.  “What a lucky guess.  You’re so clever, mija.  Anyway.  This man called Carlos fell in love at first sight; they were at a children’s hospital fundraiser and Maria was wearing this little uniform that the volunteers all wore, and Carlos was in medical school and saw her and that was it.  Just like that, he knew he wanted her.”

Santana pinches the bridge of her nose.  “This is kind of grossing me out.  No offense.”

“It’s romance, it’s not _gross_ ,” her mother says, primly.  “So Carlos wanted to talk to Maria, and bought her a flower and brought it to the hospital with him, but he was too shy.  He thought she would have a boyfriend already, and that she would say no to him.  So--he gave the flower to the receptionist, and then tried again the next day.  And the next, and the next.  Until the receptionist had a bouquet of about twenty flowers, and that’s the day that Maria ran into him at the reception.”

Santana taps her fingers against the table.  “I know how this story ends already, okay, so--”

“Maria said to him, ‘Wow, you must really love the receptionist a lot, bringing her flowers every day’.  And because Carlos was such a coward, he just faked a smile and said, ‘Pretty flowers for a pretty lady’, even though the receptionist was a forty year old married woman with a double chin.”

Santana laughs.  “Great.”

“They didn’t see each other again for three years, and by that time, Maria was engaged to someone else,” her mother continues, and gives her a pointed look.

The message is a little heavy-handed, but somehow hits home anyway.

“Well.  At least we can be sure he’s my father, huh,” Santana finally says, putting her mug back down on the table and scooting her chair back.

“Santana--we were very happy together for very many years.  We just grew apart, and we’ll be happy without each other as well.  But--would I give up those twenty years I had with him?  Not for my _life_ ,” her mother says.

“Yeah.  I got it, okay?” Santana says, almost knocking the chair over with how quickly she pushes it back against the table; then, she just goes and takes a very long shower, before lying down on her guest bed in her mother’s new, home-like apartment, and stares at the ceiling until she legitimately can’t think of anything anymore.

*

They go out drinking later that night, with a new set of fake IDs courtesy of Puck that Quinn has on her, and Sam teaches Quinn how to bounce quarters--which, really, who needs to be _taught_ how to do that--and teaches Santana how to do his Sean Connery voice.

“Rachel will love it, man,” he says, one too many beers later, and then everything turns to shit faster than Santana can even recall;  Quinn freezes, Sam looks guilty and then depressed, and she’s back in her head, in that place where Rachel is with Brittany and they’re _both_ not at all what she wants.

Except they are.

She punches Sam in the arm and says, “Just _stop_ it.”

“I can’t help--”

“Samwise, she didn’t fucking love you enough, okay?  It’s not worth being so stuck on her.  Rachel’s kind of a pain in the ass anyway, so why would you want her back, or miss her, when you know that she wasn’t even like--that she just didn’t feel the same way you did?” Santana says; maybe it _is_ a little mean, but she’s had just about enough of this happening every third day.

Sam picks at his beer bottle label for another moment, and then takes a deep breath.  “You’re right.”

“Plus, she’s going to--like, I don’t know, spend most of her life touring the country with stage shows, and working double shifts most days; you’d never see her in the evening if you were with her, and even then, if she ever gets a chance to go to Hollywood, she’d basically just be gone,” Santana adds.

Sam nods again and says, “Yeah.”

“You just want someone to come home to, dude.”  That one comes out a little more gently, and after a beat Sam just half-smiles at her and says, “I’m not _as_ big a woman as you make me out to be, okay?  I want someone to come home to who has a really nice pair of--” before gesturing at his chest.

Santana starts laughing and high-fives him; Quinn, meanwhile, looks like she swallowed a frog, and then there’s a semi-discreet glance down at her boobs that has Santana in tears of laughter a moment later.

“Sorry,” Sam says, also laughing, but covering Quinn’s hand with his own.  “She brings it out in me, I swear, she’s the worst influence.  I respect women, I honestly do--”

Quinn rolls her eyes and says, “Thanks for making it very clear that I need some female friends who aren’t secretly teenaged boys, you two.”

“What fun would that be?  You’re at your best when you get super drunk because you’re scandalized by something,” Santana says, grinning around a bit lip.

Quinn flicks a coaster at her and then pounds back the rest of her beer before looking between them both.  “Think they have decent karaoke anywhere in Pittsburgh?”

“On it,” Sam says, whipping out his iPhone immediately, and hitting a few keys.

It feels a little like moving on in the right direction, even if that’s just one where nobody talks about Rachel at all.

*

Quinn and Sam slaughter _Total Eclipse of the Heart_ together and Santana’s lungs hurt from laughing too much; it doesn’t stop until she tries to picture the look on Rachel’s face, which brings with it yet another potent punch of regret and happiness that’s just--and fuck, she’s drunk, so this is a terrible idea, but while they hit on the third rendition of the chorus, she slips out of the karaoke bar they’re in and digs out her phone.

It’s like three am.  Rachel is going to kill her.

She doesn’t stop to start caring, and just hits her second speed-dial.

Rachel sounds groggy and alarmed when she picks up.  “Hello--Santana?  What--are you...”

Then it’s completely silent for a long time, until Santana sucks some more of the semi-cool night air into her lungs and breathes out a soft, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Rachel says back, rustling some sheets and then yawning audibly.  She still doesn’t say anything else, and fuck, it _hurts_ that this is what it’s come down to between the two of them.

“I just--” Santana starts to say, before moving further away from the front of the bar, where people are smoking and talking loudly.  “Did you... did you mean what you wrote.  On that last card, I mean.”

“Yes,” Rachel says, quietly but assuredly.  “I can’t be your friend, Santana.  It would hurt too much.  You know what this is like; I saw you with Brittany for years and--”

“It’s not the same,” Santana protests, but it’s weak.  It’s weak because she’s not even sure that it’s not the same for _her_ , so how the hell can she be sure it’s not the same for Rachel?

“Of course it’s not the same.  But it would destroy me in the same way it destroyed you.”

“Yeah okay, drama queen much,” Santana sighs, and then laughs a little.

“Are you drunk?” Rachel asks, after a moment.

“I wouldn’t be calling if I wasn’t.”

“Are you going to remember that you called tomorrow?”

Santana shivers and glances to the front of the bar, where Sam is peering out and looking for her.  She gives him a quick thumbs up and watches him leave again, and then says, “Yeah.”

Rachel says nothing for a long moment, but then asks, “Are you going to call again?”

“I don’t know,” Santana says, honestly.  “I just--had to know, you know?  Because... well, shit.”

“It’s not meant to be an ultimatum, Santana.  I don’t want to stop being your friend.  I would just--need time.  And I don’t know how much of it.  I--” Rachel starts to say, but then stops and makes a small, frustrated noise.  “I don’t know if there’s any point in me telling you this now.”

“You’re in here, you know,” Santana says, after another thick and awkward silence.  She leans against the brick wall of the pizzeria across the street from the karaoke bar, and tilts her head backwards until she’s blinded by a street light.  

“In where?”

“My head,” Santana says, closing her eyes.  “And you won’t go away.”

Rachel swallows audibly.  “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.  It’s just... it’s not just you.”

“Brittany,” Rachel says, more than asks.

“And me.  A lot of me.  Just going around in circles.  Whatever.”

“Do you still love her?” Rachel asks, sounding like it hurts so much to even put it into words that something inside of Santana cringes.

“I’ll always love her,” she says.  It’s not untrue.  “But she’s been back for … I don’t know.  Almost a month now?  And... I haven’t even kissed her.”

Rachel exhales sharply, and then sighs.  “You know, if you’re trying to get me to not read into the things you’re saying, you’re doing a very bad job.”

“No, but, what I mean is.... I’m going to kiss her,” Santana says.  “Just because I have to know.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, more calmly than Santana expects her to.

“It’s not fair on either of you that I don’t know.  Okay?  I _have to know_.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, again.  “You don’t have to explain.  I get it, Santana.  You’re not being unreasonable.  You’re being honest.”

“Because I’m drunk,” Santana says, and finally closes her eyes, when all she has dancing in front of her is white lights.  “I’m only ever honest when I’m drunk.  Because I’m a coward, just like my dad.”

“Santana, you’re _nothing_ like your dad,” Rachel says, admonishingly.   “You’re a little like _mine_ , but--”

“Oh, fuck.  Black Berry is going to kill me for doing this to you,” Santana sighs, rubbing at her forehead.  “Do your dads own shotguns?  I’m never going back to Lima.  Fuck.”

Rachel laughs quietly and then says, “Santana--I’m going to let you go now, okay?  But thank you for being honest with me.”

“I should be honest with you all the time,” Santana says, scuffing her foot against the pavement; it kind of hurts, and she doesn’t realize she’s wearing open-toed sandals until there’s already a scrape of blood there.  Shit.  “Like, maybe I should be with everyone, but mostly just you.”

“It’s okay.  I’m not always honest with you, either.”

“Quinn says we should work on that.  I think she might actually be right for once.  What a bitch, right?”

Rachel chuckles and then says, “How are you getting home?”

“My mom’s getting us.  She says hi.  Or well she would, if she knew I was talking to you.  She thinks you’re really pretty, you know.  And talented.  Which, like, geez, does a bear shit in a forest.  I swear my intelligence levels are some sort of genetic fluke of sheer awesome.”

Rachel laughs and sighs at the same time.  “Santana; don’t make this harder than--”

“Okay.  Yeah, I’m--I need to go.  Bye,” she says, and hangs up before anything else can slip out without her permission.

Maybe she’ll regret this tomorrow, she thinks, before half-limping back to the karaoke bar and buying another round of tequila shots.

Maybe not, though.

*

The drive back is quiet and full of sunglasses and fatty foods.

“Lopez, I swear, you are going to be the death of me one day,” Sam mutters from behind the wheel.

Quinn chuckles, then groans, and says, “She’s been doing this to me longer than she has to you.”

“There is such a thing as _too much alcohol,_ okay?” Sam says, before glancing at her in the rear view mirror.

Santana rolls her eyes at him, and then looks at her phone again--wondering if maybe she should send a text, to apologize, or something.

But--the alcohol’s out of her system now, and fuck, she’s back to just not being able to do a damn thing she wants to.

*

Some part of her settles as soon as they’re back in the apartment, and Brittany’s watching an episode of _Biker Mice from Mars_ on mute with Mike.

“We’re making up the plot,” he tells them, when they walk in; Brittany just shushes them with a finger to her lips, and Santana flops down into Rachel’s chair without thinking any further while Quinn drops their bags right next to the fridge, gets out a Vitamin Water, and heads to Rachel’s bedroom for some Cheerios-style power napping.

She falls asleep during the episode somehow, and when she next wakes up it’s because Brittany’s touching her arm and saying, “Do you want dinner?”

“You cook?” Santana asks, blinking her eyes open and frowning.

“Well, yeah, duh,” Brittany says, not without resentment.  “Artie can’t reach the stove, okay.  I mean, he can work the oven, but he can’t see what he’s doing in the top parts.”

“Shit, that’s not,” Santana starts to say, rubbing at her eyes.  “That’s not what I meant.  I just--”

“No, what you meant is that I never did anything for myself,” Brittany says, and again, it’s a little sharper than it used to be.  “Which is true, I guess, but things have changed, Santana.  I mean, I have.”

It’s a loaded conversation that she doesn’t want to have at this particular point in time, but when she looks at Brittany again, there’s a stubborn look of determination on her face that she hardly even recognizes.

“I _know_ that,” she says, with a sigh.  “You think I haven’t?”

“Well, not a lot, anyway,” Brittany says, after a moment.  “I mean, you’re screwing things up with Rachel exactly the way you did with me.”

She’s out of the chair in a flash, and then her hand balls up, and--

“Fuck,” she breathes out, just _inches_ away from hitting her oldest, closest friend.

Brittany just glances at the hand, and watches it fall away, and then says, “Dinner?”

This isn’t how she envisioned this would go--not when she was sixteen, and absolutely dying for it; not when she was seventeen and the idea of it happening hurt almost as much as the idea of it not happening did.  Not when she was eighteen, and mostly gave up on it ever happening at all, except in those quiet moments right before sleep every so often, when she realized that she wasn’t saying goodnight to anyone she cared about.

This isn't how she thought this would happen. Not then, and not even really now.

But, it’s happening anyway; she’s up on her toes, and that’s familiar, as is the way that Brittany’s hands slide around her waist.  Brittany takes control immediately, and Santana feels herself behind pushed back into the chair, until Brittany sits on her lap and slides hands up her sides, and onto her shoulders, and holds her steady.

“I’m not--going to run,” she manages to get out, between kisses, and Brittany just pulls back and says, “I know you’re not.  That’s not--just shut up, Santana”, before leaning back in, licking Santana’s lips apart gently, and knitting a hand in her hair.

It’s familiar.  It’s like coming home, in a lot of ways; a home she hasn’t been to in years, but where the furniture’s barely been moved around, and when Brittany hums softly and deepens the kiss just a little bit more, Santana squeezes her eyes shut harder and focuses on all the reasons why coming home should feel _so good_ , after all this time.

But--even when Brittany scratches at that place at the back of her neck that makes her shudder, and even when she runs her own hands up Britt’s thighs, and feels them flex, there’s just--

Brittany realizes it at the same time she does, and pulls away, a small frown line between her eyebrows.  “This isn’t working.”

“No,” Santana says, letting her hands fall away--and then hesitating again before just settling them on Brittany’s hips again.  “It’s--it’s not the same, is it.  As it was before.”

“No,” Brittany agrees, quietly.  “It’s weird.  I thought it would always be, but--”

Santana takes a deep breath.  “I love you, you know.”

“Well, yeah,” Britt says, and then leans forward and presses an achingly soft kiss to her forehead.  “I love you, too.”

When Quinn walks out an hour later, looking a little more human, they’ve barely moved; Brittany’s curled up on Santana’s lap a little bit more, but otherwise they’re almost like a pretzel, twisted together in a too-small chair.

Quinn’s face flashes through about five different reactions, before she finally says, “Well.  I guess I’ll sleep in … the other room tonight.  I hope you guys have learned how to stay quiet in the years since.... cheerleading camp.”

Brittany chuckles and unfolds, and Santana notes with some relief that she’s barely even limping on the first step anymore.  She tilts her head back to watch as Britt makes her way over to Quinn and pulls her into a hug, before whispering something into her ear.

“Oh,” Quinn says.

“Yeah.  So I mean.  I think we can all sleep in the same bed again, now.  Like we used to before we started um, you know.  With sexytimes,” Brittany says, smacking Quinn on the ass before heading to the bathroom.

Quinn’s eyes flash wide for a second, and then she just stares at Santana.

“You’re going to have to live up to that promise now,” Santana says, quietly.

“I’ll try,” Quinn says, honestly, before making her way over and settling on the arm of the chair, running a hand through Santana’s hair for a second.  “You okay?”

“Really, really not,” Santana says, and leans into the touch a little.  “I still don’t know exactly how I feel, but...”

“You felt more.  With Rachel,” Quinn says, quietly.

“Yeah.  I felt more,” Santana agrees, and closes her eyes before she can see whatever reaction Quinn has on her face.

The gentle petting on her hair continues, and if that’s as good as this is going to be for a while--well, she’ll fucking take it.

*

Two days later, she finally sends a text message.

After fifty three different drafts, the best she can come up with, _I’m going to call you sometime soon.  The conversation will be total bullshit, but the fact that I’m calling at all is what matters.  Okay?_

Rachel’s only response is _Don’t worry, I’ll get it; I’m a little bit psychic, and more than that, I know you._

Fifty percent right about something is a pretty good batting average by Rachel's usual standards, Santana thinks, and smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the usual suspects and everyone reading this story and seeing *something* worth relating to in it. This is a little tonally different from the rest of the story, because I felt like Santana just needed a break from severe emotion and drama, but ... they're obviously not out of the woods yet. :)

“So... then John and Mark both said that I’d be _much_ better in the lead because I’m a mezzo-soprano belt and the level of emotion I can achieve in my voice is far more suitable for this kind of performance than Andrea’s voice would be, but of _course_ Mr. Hammond just listened to Andrea because--well, why is it that every music teacher I’ve ever had is just insistent on ruining my life?”

Santana laughs and flops over onto her back.  “Rachel Berry versus the World.  Hey, it’s not totally out there; some of your exes are pretty damn evil.  Jesse St. James much?”

“Hush,” Rachel says, but like she’s smiling, and Santana just grins again and picks at the edge of her shirt for a moment; her mind wanders unwillingly to what Rachel is wearing, but.... they’re not having _those_ kinds of conversations.  Yet.  Maybe.  “I guess it’s fortunate for the world and for myself that this is a mediocre summer school performance of Aida and not the thing that’s going to make or break my career.”

It’s the start of August, and it’s sweltering, and she’s lying on her bed in just a pair of shorts and a wife-beater; she doesn’t even know where the hell Rachel’s getting the energy to talk this much from, but it’s exhausting just listening to it.

Not in a _bad_ way.

Not in a bad way at all.

“When’s the actual show again?” she asks, just because this is what they’re doing these days: bi-weekly phone calls, about nothing in particular, but... about _something_ , nonetheless.

“Sunday,” Rachel says, and then clears her throat.  “I... I think we need to start talking about elephants for a moment, Santana, because you’re right.  The program’s almost over.”

“What, the ones in my room or yours?”

Rachel laughs softly and says, “Aren’t they the same elephant?”

“I don’t know,” Santana says, sighing and scooting up the bed until she’s sitting up against the wall.  

“Okay.  Well, for the sake of having an honest discussion about this, let’s call my elephant Bob, and we can call yours Joey, and--”

Santana snorts.  “Really, Rachel.”

“Bob would like to know what we are going to do when I get back to New York,” Rachel says, completely unperturbed.

A few beats of silence settle over them, and Santana stares at the ceiling for inspiration; then her wall of pictures from high school and college parties, and then finally the side of her closet, where there’s a calendar with a bunch of crossed out dates.

“I don’t know.”

“What does Joey say?” Rachel presses, and Santana rolls her eyes but whatever.  Years of being best friends with Brittany mean that this isn’t even the first time she’s had a conversation about an imaginary elephant.

“That... Quinn’s leaving on Wednesday, and Britt and Mike are hunting for an apartment--they’re sticking around for some dance classes, and Mike told me the other day that he’s planning on getting her to audition for _So You Think You Can Dance_ during the next round. I mean, he is, too, but--”

“He’s a good friend,” Rachel says, neutrally.

“I’ll make sure Quinn cleans the shit out of your bedroom.  I mean, it’ll be like.. you never left,” Santana says, wincing unwillingly on the last words.

“Will it really?”

Santana mashes her lips together and then says, “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Are you--expecting me to move back in and just pick up where we left off?” Rachel asks, in a quiet and unsure voice.

It’s such an obvious question that Santana doesn’t know _how_ she hasn’t thought about it before today.  “I don’t know, I mean.  I guess... not really.  But--”

“If I move back in with you, … I think this is all going to go terribly wrong,” Rachel finally says, putting an end to the thoughts bouncing around in her head.

“What?” Santana asks, pointlessly.

“I have this lingering concern that...” Rachel starts to say, before taking a deep breath continuing.  “Call me paranoid, but some part of me is convinced that if you got the opportunity to turn me into your fuck buddy roommate, you’d grab it with both hands.”

It’s so hot outside that Santana doesn’t even know _how_ she starts sweating more at Rachel’s use of the phrase ‘fuck buddy’, but she kind of does; it simmers low in her gut, like some particular tones of warmth in Rachel’s voice do anyway, these days, and she closes her eyes and rubs at her face.

“I--if that’s your way of saying that I’m hoping that we’ll,... you know.   _Do it_ , when you get back,...”

“Of course we’ll _do it_ when I get back,” Rachel says, a little more confidently.  “I mean, correct me if I’m wrong, but these conversations we keep having.... they’re nothing but foreplay, aren’t they?  I mean, they are for me, but--”

“Rach, if you want to keep having a serious conversation, get off the topic of foreplay, please,” Santana says; it comes out a little pleading, and she’s not entirely sure how she feels about that, but Rachel doesn’t seem to mind much.

“I’m not interested in being the next Chastity, Santana,” Rachel finally says, instead.

“Chastity had _no_ complaints about being the old Chastity,” Santana says.  She’s not sure why she’s annoyed, but that _sounded_ like a complaint about--whatever, her abilities, and she’s just not putting up with that; not when, the second she closes her eyes, she can still see Rachel coming apart at her hands and her mouth, and Rachel can just go and--

“Chastity wanted to be your lover and maybe your friend, but not much more than that.  It’s … this isn’t the same thing as that.”

Santana bites her lip and then says, “Aren’t relationships just... situations where your lover _is_ your friend?”

Rachel sighs deeply.  “Yeah, okay.  This is why--I mean, I’ve been thinking about this a lot, but you’ve just convinced me that I had the right idea all along.”

“Wait, what are we talking about now?”

“I think I need to move out,” Rachel says, self-assuredly and calmly.

“I’m--what?  Why?  You’ve been gone all summer, and I thought...”  She forces herself to stop before she says anything truly pathetic, and then just repeats, “Why?”

“Because...” Rachel says, hesitantly.  “You’re not in the same place I’m in.  Not yet, anyway.  I know what I want, and if I’m completely honest with myself--it’s everything.  Not just... you in my bed, or you as my roommate.  I want _you_.”

“Yeah, okay,” Santana mumbles, pressing her forehead against her knees.  “I’m--I mean.  I’m here, aren’t I?  I’m figuring things out.”

“You are, but it’s going to take time, and … frankly, if our … encounter in June demonstrated anything, it’s that I don’t know how to say no to you.  All it takes is a look, Santana, and I’m so ready to sleep with you that it’s almost embarrassing,” Rachel says.

When Santana closes her eyes, she can just about picture the flush on her cheeks, and oh, there’s a rush of heat straight down to her crotch that she really isn’t expecting at those words.

“And you don’t want to,” she then says.

“Not unless... it’s because we’re actually together.  I’m sorry, but--”

“No, don’t fucking apologize for that.  You’re being honest.  It’s our new thing, right?” Santana says, exhaling long and hard.  “I get it.  I just--I mean.  What about our living arrangements for next year?  I mean, I _need_ a roommate, and you’re not giving me a lot of notice, here.”

“I’m swapping with Mike,” Rachel says, before making an apologetic noise.  “I’ve asked him and Britt to not say anything until I had a chance to tell you, but it’s what makes the most sense.”

Santana processes this for a moment, and then sits up straight.  “Wait.  You’re moving in with _Brittany_?”

“We’ve never not gotten along,” Rachel says, plainly.

“But--what?  I mean,” Santana stutters, and then says, “Wait a minute.  Is this because you don’t trust _me_ to live with her?”

Rachel hesitates for a second and then says, “More like, I want to be able to come to the apartment that I think of as home without seeing you and your ex-girlfriend in every single space that used to just be _ours_.  I know that’s petty, but--”

Santana makes a disbelieving noise, but then thinks for just one second about what it would be like to have to hang out with Brittany at her and Artie’s apartment, even though they’re not together anymore, and the fight just sinks out of her.

“Okay.  Shit.  You two better not start some sort of secret _let’s talk shit about Santana_ club or anything, though.  I’m not having that.”

Rachel chuckles a little, sounding relieved.  “I’d rather find out about your worst relationship habits on my own, if that’s okay with you.  I mean--not that … we’re in a relationship, but--”

“Hey,” Santana says, as gently as she can.  “Neither were she and I.  Not _really_ , anyway.  Not ever.”

“Right,” Rachel says, with forced casualness.  “Well.  I don’t mind being a pioneer.  If you’ll remember, the Glee club was dead in the water until I decided to turn it into my personal mission to--”

Santana laughs without meaning to and says, “Did you just actually compare the idea of dating me to running _Glee_?”

Rachel says nothing for a while and then asks, carefully.  “Did you just actually … contemplate _dating_ me?”

Quinn, that devil, knocks on the door a scant second later and says, “We’re heading out for dinner--are you--oh.”

“No, it’s okay.  We’ve been on the phone for...” Santana starts to say, and glances at her desk clock and then, shit, she blushes without meaning to.  “Almost two hours.  I can go.  Right?”

“Of course.  I have to head to rehearsals soon anyway,” Rachel says.  “Tell... everyone I said hi.”

“Will do,” Santana says; Quinn quirks an amused eyebrow at her in the door.  “Um,... and as to that other thing.  Yeah, that’s what I meant.  I mean.  Not in like, a super cheesy way; you’re actually addled if you think I’m going to show up with a bouquet of roses or anything, but--”

Rachel laughs softly and says, “I look forward to … seeing you, in that case.  Pun intended.”

“ _Please_ stop before I change my mind,” Santana grumbles, and then hangs up.

The real goodbyes have been coming in text messages anyway; she’s barely even followed Quinn out of the apartment when Rachel’s _flowers are overrated xx_ hits her inbox, and they’re only down the stairs when she’s sent back a quick _not to mention overpriced; I can think of better ways to spend money on you._

When Quinn holds the front door open for her, there must be _something_ showing on her face, because Quinn sort of frowns and smiles at the same time.

“You look … relaxed,” she says.

Santana links their arms together, even though it’s boiling hot, because--fuck, she’s going to miss Quinn even though it’s for the best that Quinn and Rachel aren’t in the same city right now.  She’s having to make enough difficult choices without entering into the whole roommate for junior year discussion, and--

“Can I ask you something stupid?” she asks, forcing her train of thought to just come to a halt.  One day at a time.  It’s the only way she can process any of this.

“Has a ‘no’ ever deterred you?” Quinn responds, hip-checking her in kind.

Santana rolls her eyes, and focuses on some kids playing with a jump rope cross the street from them.  There’s a little girl in the middle doing double-dutch, and she thinks back to playground with Britt and Quinn, and how they’d always been inseparable and had never thought anything would come between them--let alone that stupid, annoying Berry girl who they’d knocked off the monkey bars more than once.

“How do you date people?” she finally just says.

Quinn smothers some laughter, and then says, “Oh, _God_ , you’re not kidding, are you?”

“No.  I know you were around for most of this, but my first experience with romance was fucking Puckerman in our pool when I was fourteen, and his idea of romance was sharing a 40 of Mike’s Hard Lemonade before we fucked.  With Britt, it was always just hanging out... and since then, I’ve mostly just... had a few meals with girls before, you know, but never...”

“You’re almost twenty years old and you’ve _never dated someone_ ,” Quinn says, sounding both surprised and sad.

“Yeah,” Santana mutters.  “Fuck, nevermind.  It was a stupid question.”

“No, it’s just--you’ve never dated someone, and the first person you’re going to _try_ this with is Rachel “Cat Calendar” Berry,” Quinn says, and then laughs and shakes her head.  “God.  Do you want me to write you a manual?”

“Given that I’m pretty sure you and she are equally high maintenance when it comes to this kind of shit, maybe you could, I don’t know, not be a dick and actually give me some pointers,” Santana says.

Quinn smiles at her momentarily and then shrugs.  “I got over being such a princess about everything.  The last.... date I was on wasn’t really a date, and we played drunken Mario Kart in my dorm’s common room while eating some leftover Chinese takeaway, and...”

Santana flinches.  “That’s--I don’t need to hear about you and Sam, okay.”

“No, but I need to talk about it,” Quinn says, firmly, and then takes a deep breath.  “And if you’re going to turn me into your relationship guru, you _owe_ me.”

“Okay, well,” Santana says.  They untangle as the head down the subway escalators and then Quinn shoves her hands in her short pockets, tipping back and forth on her toes on the platform.

“He--he didn’t even say that he thought I was beautiful.  All he did was ask what he’d done wrong, with me, back then.  Why he can’t keep girls even though he tries so hard, and … it wasn’t as coherent as this, but I couldn’t think of anything to do to show him just how sorry I was about, you know, choosing Finn over him …”  Quinn trails off and then sighs, looking at the dirty floor.  A train rushes by the opposing platform and Santana looks at her face carefully.  “I kissed him.  He was surprised, and I said that it was okay, and I kissed him again.  And then we had sex.”

“And now?” Santana asks, carefully.

“And now--we’re friends,” Quinn says.  She smiles after a second and says, “It’s--a better outcome than I was hoping for.  He’s trying to get me to … join some stupid online game, World of Werecraft or something.  Says it’d be fun to have a girl on his clan.”

Santana tilts her head.  “So what’s your angle here?  Do you _want_ to be his friend?”

Quinn licks at her lips briefly and then takes a step backwards when their train arrives.  “No.  And yes.  I mean.  I think it’s all I can get from him. You _saw_ how he was, with Rachel, and...”

It’s not until they’re arriving at their stop, and see Mike and Brittany waiting together--still in their baggy dance clothes, but laughing about something on Mike’s phone together--that Quinn finally adds, “Sometimes, things are worth waiting for.  And I’d rather be his friend and have... good memories, you know, about what happened, than …”

“Yeah,” Santana says, and thinks about Rachel,writhing on her sheets, begging her to get off--and how terrible it was when it felt like they’d never, _ever_ be able to talk about that.  “Sam’s--a little slow, sometimes.  But maybe--”

“Slow is good,” Quinn says, and then glances at Mike and Brittany with a very placid expression that basically says _conversation over_.  

She’s seen Quinn do it a zillion times, but it never stops being impressive.

Santana gives Britt a quick one-armed hug and then stares at Mike.  “So.   _Roomie_.”

He gulps a little and then says, “Yeah.  Um.  I hope you’re not too pissed, I mean.  I’m a pretty good roommate.  I’m clean, for a guy, and--I have XBox Live.”

She tries to stare him down for another second, but cracks a smile anyway and said, “Someone told you exactly what to say.”

“Rachel … might have indicated you have a neurotic hang-up about bathroom towels,” Mike says, with a small wince.  “And that you kick ass at FPS.”

“Both true,” Santana says, and then tilts her head.  “So you’re cool with this?”

“Well, everyone tells me you’re not _actually_ going to kill me in my sleep, so...”

Brittany laughs and leans into Quinn’s side, and--this is a picture from her past, really, but it fits so seamlessly into her future that it’s a real head trip.

There’s only one thing missing, but that’s going to be back in the city shortly as well, and Santana just smiles at Mike and says, “If I do, it’ll be quick and painless, don’t worry.”

*

Quinn and Rachel miss each other by a grand forty five minutes, and it takes Santana nearly that long to go from the La Guardia departures to the arrivals; she stops only to grab a latte and sips on it while waiting for Rachel’s flight to land.

The closer it gets to being that time, the more her palms start to sweat, and--fuck, this is ridiculous.  Rachel is her best friend, and Rachel _knows_ not to expect anything, and they’re being honest about not really knowing what the fuck they’re doing, so--

Her phone rings, with a number from Lima, and she squints at it for a moment before answering.

“Hello?”

“Santana Lopez,” Black Berry says, calmly but deadly serious.  “Word has it you’re at the airport picking up a certain package right now.”

“Uh--” Santana says, because nothing more sensible is coming to mind.  “Yeah?”

“A few words of advice,” Black Berry says.  “First: if you hurt her intentionally, I will hunt you down and string you upside down from the Statue of Liberty.”

Santana swallows and says, “Yeah, that’s not--okay, yeah.  I won’t.”

“Secondly: if you hurt her _unintentionally_ , I will hunt you down and string you upside down from the Statue--”

“I uh, I think I get the picture,” she says, and watches as the first passengers on Rachel’s plane start to file out.  Her heart is pounding, and she’s not even really sure if it’s because she’s getting a pretty prototypical parental warning signal right now, or because--

“Thirdly: Rachel’s a pain in the butt, and she’s going to make you want to tear your hair out, but just remember--I know where you live.”  

“Okay, what is going on right now?” Santana finally says.  “I’m--what has she even _told_ you?”

“Nothing, other than that you’re busy extricating your head from your ass,” Black Berry says, sounding amused.  “Try not to take too long, okay?  I’d hate to have to lay the smack down on someone I like so much.”

“I’ll--yeah.  I’m working on it.  I … okay, I’m sorry, but I can’t really talk about this with you,” Santana says, feeling incredibly awkward.  “I mean, you’re like... her _dad_.  And also kind of like … _my dad_ , and--”

“Finally: if you’re going to be doing unspeakable things to my daughter, and mind you, Santana, I don’t ever want to know if you are--that girl is a saint and you will treat her like a lady, okay?”

“Oh my God,” Santana says, squeezing her eyes shut.

“ _If_ any of that is going to be happening... well, you better knock that Black Berry shit off right now and start calling me Leroy,” he concludes.

“Wait,” Santana says.  “So... you _approve_ of this?”

“I don’t know how if you’ve paid any attention to the way things work in my household, Lopez, but--Rachel gets what Rachel wants.  Even if that means having to put up with your ungrateful ass for the rest of time.”

Santana laughs a little.  “God, you are really freaking me out here--and I have to go, she’s--she’s right there.”

“Bye, Santana.  Be good now.”

“Um, thanks.  …. Leroy,” she says, before hitting the disconnect button and trying to ignore the thrumming in her chest when Rachel ducks out of the customs area, and--

Oh, _God_.

Rachel spots her after a few seconds, and when Santana’s done processing that her suitcase is almost as big as her--never not funny--all she can think of is that it’s possibly contrary to terrorism legislation for anyone to be wearing a skirt that short in public, and that--

“Hey,” Rachel says, the longest thirty seconds of time later, when they’re finally in front of each other.  “Did--are you okay?”

“Your dad just called me,” Santana says, after swallowing--and then her hand moves forward of its own volition.  “You--wow.  Have you ever worn it this short before?”

Rachel shakes her head, and then purses her lips and says, “Well, if we’re discounting a very brief period in elementary school when my parents thought that cutting my hair would restore some of its natural curl to it, but--”

“It looks....” Santana starts to say, before blinking.  “ _You_ look--good.  It’s a mature look.  I mean, you look... like I maybe just hallucinated all of those years when you dressed like the 80s porn revival equivalent of the Catholic schoolgirl fantasy.”

Rachel blushes and rolls her eyes.  “It’s just a long bob, Santana, it’s not--”

“You look good,” Santana says, again, more forcefully this time.

It’s bullshit, because the way Rachel’s lips just about quirk up into a smile really makes her want to--well, do _something_ , but all she can think of now is that if she touches Rachel, _Leroy_ will somehow know and will greet her with a steak knife when they get back to the apartment.

“Your dad’s an asshole,” she says, after a few more seconds of her hands just itching to reach, and--this Rachel is so much the same, but also _so_ different.  She’s--calm, somehow.  She’s okay with just waiting, and when she smiles a little wider and says, “Oh, God, did he give you the speech?  Because Sam got threatened with being strung down from the McKinley flag pole, and couldn’t look at me for--”

“Statue of Liberty,” Santana says, and glances at Rachel’s skirt for just a second, which is _really_ not helping with--well, keeping her thoughts at a Leroy-approved level.  “I think he wants me more dead than he wants Sam.”

“It’s a compliment,” Rachel says, softly, and there’s something about her tone of voice that finally breaks through the inaction.

They hug--and it’s like it’s always been, really, those few times they have hugged (and maybe she should’ve bought a clue in just how little she’s ever touched Rachel, at least when compared to Brittany and Quinn; maybe, her body has always known more than she has about what doing that would do to _her_ ), except...

It also really isn’t, and she can’t help herself; the words, “I missed you” slip out and press into Rachel’s temple, and when Rachel’s hands tighten briefly around her shoulders, she closes her eyes and just stays in the moment as long as she can.

They’ll never have this again; this first moment of sort of _knowing_ each other, and--so what if it’s in a busy, filthy airport arrivals hall?

It’s still a moment.  

“Me too,” Rachel murmurs back, against her neck, and she shivers and doesn’t even _care_ that her body reacts so much.

When Rachel lets go first, she’s again a little surprised, but not in a bad way.

“We’ve already moved all of your junk over to your new place,” Santana says, taking a step backwards and reaching for the suitcase automatically, tugging it behind her.  “So--we can go there, or we can go... to the apartment, and--”

“Actually--can we go to our Starbucks?” Rachel asks.

Santana glances back, and Rachel just flashes a small smile, but doesn’t say anything else.

“Yeah.  We can.”

*

When she gets back to her own place later that night, Mike’s shirtless and doing dishes, and glances at her in surprise before saying, “Uh, I can go cover up if this is--you know, now that you’re gay and all--”

“Chang, just because I’m not going to sleep with you doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate looking at a nice thing when it’s in front of me,” she says, leaning against the breakfast bar and laughing at the blush on his face.

“Um--how’s things?  With Rachel?” he asks.

“She’s good,” Santana says, because he’s just _barely_ moved in, and if she’s going to talk to anyone about this it’s definitely not him.

“Cool,” he says, rinsing his hands off and then turning around.  “So--you up for some Call of Duty?”

She could’ve done _so_ much worse in the roommate department.  

*

Not living together is strange.

Their afternoons at Starbucks take on new meaning--especially when classes start again and Rachel can’t make it at their usual time on Wednesdays anymore because of a theater workshop, and Santana actually finds that she’s _pouting_ about it.  Brittany comes and fills the Wednesday slot instead, because her dance classes neatly fit around it, and--that’s nice, too, but just different.

She has no idea how the reconcile the idea that she’s more naturally comfortable around Rachel in her head with the knowledge that she’s actually known Brittany her entire life, but it’s sort of what’s happened anyway.

On Fridays, they meet half an hour earlier, and it’s the second week of term when Rachel shows up with Mel and Kelly.  

“Hey, look who I ran into?” she says, with a small squeeze to Santana’s shoulder, before settling down in front of her.

“Yeah... way to be a stranger, Lopez,” Kelly says, cuffing her in the head.  “We all thought that you’d like, emigrated or something.”

“No, we didn’t,” Mel says, plainly, before looking between them.  “Although... there are bets running on whether or not you two are _finally_ \--”

Rachel colors and says, “I’m going to get us drinks,” before shooting out of the chair again. Santana directs her best glare at both of them.

“It’s _complicated_.”

“What are you, Facebook?  She’s _crazy_ about you,” Kelly says, with a glance towards Rachel at the counter, “and you’re not faring much better yourself.  Hell, Santana, I didn’t even know you _could_ smile that wide.”

Santana rolls her eyes.  “You two can stay if you can stop talking about this.  Okay?  It’s not fodder for the lesbian drama club.  We’re--figuring things out.”

“Good,” Mel says.  “Not often that you see two gay girls resisting the U-Haul and trying something sensible instead.”

“Ha, that just reminds me of having to explain what a U-Haul _is_ to Candice,” Kelly says.

Santana laughs and watches Rachel at the counter, talking to their regular barrista, and--wait.  That’s--that’s not just _talking_.  The guy is writing something down on the receipt that definitely isn’t just an order correction, and--

Before she even knows what she’s doing, she’s at the counter, and pressed up against Rachel’s side so closely that only an _idiot_ would not understand what she’s doing; still, even idiots should be able to read that hand around Rachel’s waist.

“I have a sudden, random craving for biscotti,” Santana murmurs, right next to Rachel’s ear.  “Can you get me some?”

Rachel shoots her a hilarious confused look--she _hates_ biscotti, and clearly Rachel knows that--but then her eyes darken a little bit and there’s just the hint of a half-smile around her mouth.

“Sure, baby.  Anything else I can get you?” she says, batting her eyelashes twice.

This plan is backfiring _badly_ , because even though Santana’s aware that Rachel’s just messing with her, it’s been three and a half weeks of seeing her every day and not even the smallest _hint_ that they’re going to... well.

Even so: Santana’s not going to be bested _this_ easily.

“Nothing that you could get me in public without being arrested,” she responds, slowly, and without looking away from Rachel’s face.

Rachel’s entire frame stiffens for just a second, and then she clears her throat and looks at the dumb asshole in front of her trying to get her number again.

“Two biscotti, please,” she says, so primly and polite that Santana almost laughs.

“Thanks... baby,” she says, and then--with some effort--untangles herself and heads back to where Mel and Kelly are watching them.  “Can I get you bitches some popcorn or something, or are you liking the show without it?”

“You two are really hot together,” Kelly says, shamelessly.

“We’re not--” Santana starts to say, but then Rachel glances at her from over her shoulder at the delivery station, and--Christ, who is she kidding.  “Okay, yes, _we are_ , but seriously.  Stop it.  She’s shy, and I’m not opposed to punching either of you for being bitches about this.”

Mel smiles and says, “Look at you, being an adult.”

“It was going to happen sooner or later,” Santana mutters, but then Kelly asks her a question about her summer job, and by the time Rachel gets back with their drinks, they’re talking about which of the guys on Vampire Diaries is hotter.  It’s the kind of thing that she doesn’t expect everyone to have an opinion about, but even Mel somewhat primly admits to watching it.

“Okay, but if you think Somerhalder is built, you should stop by my place sometime,” Santana finally says.  “My roommate has the body of a God and loves walking around shirtless.”

“Um,” Kelly says, blinking, and then looking at Rachel.

Rachel bursts out laughing and says, “She doesn’t mean me.   _Obviously_.”

“No; while you might have the body of a God, I can’t imagine you walking around shirtless,” Mel says, chuckling.

Santana grins and looks at Rachel, and again, that’s supposed to be just--a look, but she can’t help the flash back to Rachel being shirtless and her boobs are just--

“Okay.  I think we’re going to go,” Kelly says, nudging Mel in the side.  “These two look like they need a moment, and anyway, we’re going to be late to our poetry reading if--”

“Poetry reading?” Santana asks, raising her eyebrows.  “Jesus, you two need to find the fun again.”

“I think I can help with that,” Rachel says, out of nowhere.  “Brittany--my new roomate, and Santana’s.... oldest friend; she and I are organizing a party for Santana’s 20th birthday in a few weeks time.  It’s going to be a low-key ordeal, because we don’t want to offend the birthday girl, but--low-key doesn’t mean it can’t be fun.”

“Okay, but your birthday better not coincide with midterms,” Kelly says, with a frown.

“Week after,” Santana says, before looking at Rachel.  “Though I have no idea when this party is, because this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

“I’ll put it on Facebook,” Rachel says, ignoring her completely, and then getting up to give Mel and Kelly a quick hug.  “It was really good seeing you two again.  We should probably try to have a game night before then.  Um--at someone’s place, anyway.”

They head out shortly after that, and Rachel finishes her latte with a few big sips and then finally just directs a stare at Santana.

“What was that?”

“What, Kelly and Mel and their poetry reading?   _Gay_ ,” Santana says, with a smirk.

“No--you and that guy, giving me his number,” Rachel asks; she then runs a hand through her hair and says, “You know, friends don’t normally object when... other friends get asked out.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not... normal friends,” Santana says, when the only other thing she can say is something she’s still not entirely ready to say.

Rachel’s eyes fix on her and then she says, so softly it’s barely audible, “Prove it.”

“I thought you didn’t want to fuck until--”

Rachel sighs and rolls her eyes simultaneously.  “Thanks.  That’s real charming.  And--we don’t have to _fuck_ for you to give me some indication that.... you know.  This _is_ going somewhere.”

Santana stares at her for a long moment.  “What the fuck do you think that that thing with that guy was if not a fucking _indication_?”

“There’s more fun ways to indicate, Santana,” Rachel says, before getting up, and--fuck, Rachel in jeans might even be better than Rachel in skirts; or maybe Rachel _annoying her_ is just better than Rachel in whatever she’s wearing, because she’s out of her chair in a flash and has Rachel by the hand, dragging her out of the Starbucks and onto the street.

“What are you--” Rachel says, stumbling to a halt against her, on the pavement outside of their Starbucks while the city mills around them.

“If you’re opposed to PDA--I really don’t give a fuck,” Santana says, and tugs her forward by a belt loop and finally just gives in to that thing she’s wanted to for almost four months now, if not since that pool party at Kurt’s.

She pulls Rachel in close, and kisses her soundly, running one hand through her hair--and damn, it’s so soft, and it’s gone from between her fingers so much faster than it was that only _other_ time she got to do this, but--

Someone cat-calls, and Santana feels her eyes flutter back open, even as Rachel presses a few more gentle kisses against her lips.

“God, you’re good at that,” she finally says, softly, before craning her head back just enough to look into Santana’s eyes.  “Or maybe-- _we’re_ good at that.”

Santana swallows for a moment, reaching up to blot at a bit of Rachel’s now-smudged gloss with her thumb, and then says, “I’m going to call Quinn for some advice on how to like-- _date_ , or whatever, and--”

“No,” Rachel says, reaching for her other hand, dangling aimlessly by her side; their fingers tangle and Rachel squeezes.  “Don’t bring Quinn into this; and don’t do what you think you should.  Do you want to go out with me?”

“I don’t--I mean.  Yeah, I guess,” Santana says, before sighing in frustration.  “But I don’t want it to be any different than it used to be.  You know.  Dinner, and just hanging out together, and--”

“So who says it has to be?”

Santana makes a face.  “I’m sorry, but, are you kidding me?  I have _met you_ , you know.  I’m sure there’s some minimal standard I have to meet or I’m never getting in your pants again.”

Rachel makes a displeased noise and then shakes her head, clearly trying not to laugh.

“ _What?_ Are you surprised that I want to?  Because--damn, Rachel, you really shouldn’t be,” Santana says, trailing off into a mutter, and then looking away uncomfortably.  This is all just _so awkward_.  There’s a reason she doesn’t do this stuff, and Rachel’s just being particularly good at reminding her of what it is.

She _sucks_ at it.  Being romantic, or a good date--whatever it is, whatever magic Sam Evans and his gay ass romantic love songs brought to the table, she just doesn’t have it.

“Hey, calm down,” Rachel says, settling a hand on her hip and just squeezing.  “I’m not as crazy as you think I am, okay?  And I know who I’m dealing with.”

“Yeah, but--”

“No, no buts,” Rachel says, shaking her head again.  “I--I fell for you without wanting to.  I don’t have any illusions about who you are.  You’re rude, and abrasive, and closed off, and better at sarcasm than you are at kindness--but you’re also someone I can eat some lukewarm take-away with, and who will always order at least two vegan sides when we do get take-away, and someone who gets her friends to drop off bottles of white wine instead of red even though you prefer red.  You … have your own way of being really good at this, and all I would want, from a ‘date’--” and she makes two little air quotes with her fingers at the word, before smiling, which somehow is the thing to make Santana actually just shut up and listen, “--is a chance to spend some time with you.”

“So--if I got rid of Chang and got you over for some Wang Choi’s and Season 2 of Veronica Mars...” Santana starts saying, carefully.

“I’d ask what time, and if there’s anything you’d like me to bring.”

Santana exhales slowly and then says, “This isn’t always going to be this easy, is it?”

“No,” Rachel says, with a small smile.  “But the little things hopefully will be.”

“Cool.  So--Sunday?”

Rachel tips onto her toes and gives her another small kiss, and this one just makes her feel funny; like she’s being promised something she can’t even quite put a name to.

“Any day,” Rachel says, and then pulls her into a quick hug and says, “I have to go--Britt wants to make _I’m sorry_ cookies and while she _says_ she’s baked before, I’d still rather not come home to a kitchen on fire, so--see you in two days.”

Santana watches her spin on her heels and head off, and then reaches for her phone almost automatically, but--fuck, what is she going to do, gush to Quinn about this like some teenage girl?

Quinn would _vomit_.  And honestly, she’d probably hate herself a little, too.

Instead, she calls Mike.  “Yo, Asia, I need you to be gone on Sunday.”

“All day?” he asks.

“Nah, just--evening,” she says, and then pauses.  “And like, if you ever need the favor returned, just.... I mean, I’m sure shit with Tina is still pretty fresh in your mind, but you’re going to move on eventually and I mean, I have your back, you know?”

Mike says nothing for a moment and then carefully goes, “Are you drunk?”

“What?  It’s three pm,” she says, frowning.

“No, but that was... almost _nice_ ,” he says, sounding even more awkward.  “Are you okay?”

“I’m--oh, fuck you,” she says, before hanging up on him.

There’s a Rachel text waiting for her already.

 _You’re not going to be as bad at this as you think you are, you know.  xx_

She rolls her eyes and almost sends back _Nope, I’ll probably be worse, but you love me anyway, right?_ \--but that word?  That’s one that they’re really not bringing into this just yet, for almost more reasons than she can count.

Instead, she focuses on Sunday; that’s terrifying enough, for now.

*

The more she thinks about it, the more it becomes clear to her that she has been on _dates_ \--it’s just the repeat element of them that’s going to be new here, in that she’s not just getting a burger before or after she puts out from a different guy every third week or so.

No, there is going to be no putting out here at all, and it’s just going to be Rachel from now on.  

It’s crazy.  It’s crazy because she normally just shrugs on whatever she first sees, these days, because nobody at Barnard gives a crap what she’s wearing. It’s crazy because she doesn’t normally _clean_ the apartment before having people over, flinging Mike’s socks into Rachel’s old bedroom and slamming the door shut on his mess.

It’s crazy because she knows exactly what Rachel will want from their local Chinese, but spends some time pouring over the menu anyway, just in case she’s missing something obvious that Rachel will _also_ like.  And it’s crazy because she’s gotten Erin to buy two different types of white wine just for the night and--what the hell is she even thinking?

She calls Kurt, because Quinn isn’t going to put up with her shit right now, and he might just actually be friendly enough to talk her through this.

“Santana, you’ve dined with her hundreds of times,” Kurt says, easily, before cooing at the dog.  “It’s not going to be any different just because you’re now--”

“Thinking about how hot she is in bed all the time?” Santana says, and, come on. That’s a fact right there that shouldn’t be making her _miserable_ , but she just feels like an ass for not being able to stop mentally undressing Rachel every time they’re within five feet of each other.

“Okay, cringe, and ew.  In roughly that order,” Kurt says, before sighing.  “Look . You’re overthinking this completely.  So help me, I don’t like being mean about her anymore, but you are getting a chance to be with a _sane_ version of Rachel.  Nobody else has been so lucky; she’s been particularly deranged about her dating life as long as I’ve known her.  But she called me a week ago and just said that you were both taking it slow and that she’s still very sure that she likes you, and that she’s hopeful that you’ll work it out.  I mean, does that even _sound_ like Rachel to you?  If I didn’t know better I’d have thought she was on lithium.”

Santana laughs unwillingly.  “Fuck, I’m being so stupid about this.”

“Yeah.  Because you _care_.  And not just about.... gay lady sex things that I refuse to think about or talk about.  Just go with it, Santana.  She’s seen you at your absolute worst for years on end and somehow still thinks you’re a catch.  What can one dinner possibly undo?”

*

The answer is nothing.

They eat and talk about classes and their mutual friends, and Rachel politely (but completely disinterestedly) asks about Quinn, and then mentions that Puck and his band are actually getting a few small gigs in the LA area lined up.

“What did you two even do, on your road trip?” Santana asks, before scooping some more chow mein onto her plate.  “I mean--he’s been keeping pretty quiet, and--I don’t know.  You came back better than you left, you know?”

Rachel smiles after a second and then says, “He just reminded me that.... I have a lot going for me, and that I’m not undesirable.”

Santana blinks at that statement, and then glances at Rachel.  “Puckerman’s not a wordsmith.”

“No, he’s not,” Rachel says, looking back at her.

“So--”

“Santana--we’re not going to talk about this, because there isn’t anything to talk about.  Okay?” she says, softly, and Santana frowns for a moment and then sighs.

“I slept with him right after I realized I was gay,” she finally says.  “Just--to make sure.  You know, that... it wasn’t just a Brittany thing, or to see if it would go away, but--”

Rachel’s hand is on her thigh a moment later, squeezing, and she says, “Puck is a _great_ friend.”

Santana nods and says, “Yeah, he is.”

“A great friend who made me realize that I’m completely into you,” Rachel says, a little more emphatically.

Santana finishes one last bite of food and then puts her plate on the table.  “What--are there rules, about what we can and can’t do?”

When she next looks at Rachel, Rachel’s biting her lip, and then finally says, “No.  Not unless you now feel that you need to prove something to me, which--”

“Fuck, you think I’m thinking about _you_ right now?” Santana says, with a small laugh.  “The only thing I need is to--”

Rachel shifts so quickly that she’s still talking when their lips connect, and then she’s on her back on the sofa, with Rachel on top of her, settling on her heavily and kissing her so deeply that her head spins.  Their lips glide together effortlessly, and her hands slip down to the hem of Rachel’s skirt, dragging up until her fingernails are scratching at the edge of her ass and Rachel jerks forward with a deep, low moan.

“Jesus,” Santana mumbles, tearing her lips away just long enough to breathe, and then nosing Rachel’s hair to the side until she can suck on her neck, on that tiny bit of skin that makes Rachel’s hips cant into her all over again.

“This--I’m not sleeping with you tonight,” Rachel says, breathily and without any conviction.  “But if you can figure out a way to get us off without anyone getting naked--”

Santana doesn’t even know where that choked noise in her throat comes from, but her hands glide down and urge Rachel’s thighs to spread again, and then when she presses upwards with one jean-clad knee, Rachel groans so loudly that it gets her wet all over again.

Rachel’s forehead drops onto her shoulder, and her teeth dig in there for a moment until she says, “I’ve been masturbating at least three times a day ever since we started talking on the phone again.  Your voice alone is just--oh, God, don’t stop--”

“Don’t _stop_?  Jesus, are you crazy,” Santana exhales, her voice shaking on every word, images of Rachel bucking up into her own fingers while thinking of her running through her head so quickly that it’s only on instinct that she’s grabbing Rachel’s hips.

They kiss again, Rachel’s tongue sliding wetly into her mouth and Rachel moaning up against her lips before nibbling on the bottom one, and Santana has _no_ idea how this almost middle-school-style making out is getting her so fucking hot so fast, but she’s helping Rachel ride her leg like nothing else, and--fuck, the only thing she’s thinking is that she wishes she wasn’t wearing jeans, because Rachel’s wet--she knows it, and Rachel’s _telling_ her that she’s wet, pretty much constantly these days, apparently--

She lifts her left leg as much as she can, wrapping it around Rachel’s back, until Rachel’s pressed against her more tightly and _finally_ there’s some pressure against her clit that she can work with.

“Are you--oh, God, why are you wearing jeans,” Rachel complains, her breath coming out in quick little pants.

“I can take them off--”

“ _No,_ ” Rachel gasps out, and then laughs and says, “Oh, God, we’d never be able to stop, just stay right--”

And then, with just one more squeeze into Rachel’s ass, and one more deliberate flex of her leg, Rachel’s face is pressing against her neck and she’s crying out softly, her hips jerking haphazardly against Santana’s thigh.

It’s the hottest thing that’s _ever_ happened to her, and that’s why it’s so mental that her first impulse is to just pull Rachel’s skirt back in place and pat her on the ass in a friendly way.

When she does, Rachel chuckles right next to her ear and says, “Such a gentleman.”

“Says the horny girl desperately rubbing one out on my thigh, I mean, _really_ ,” Santana retorts, but her voice is thick and almost unrecognizable to herself, and Rachel sits up just enough to cup her face and look at her.

“You bring things out in me that I didn’t even know were there,” she says, and then presses a small kiss to the corner of Santana’s mouth.  

“Yeah, that goes both ways,” Santana murmurs, shuddering when Rachel shifts a little bit--pressing into her one last time--and then moves to her side.

“Sorry you didn’t--” Rachel starts to say, and Santana just scoffs and shakes her head.

“Whatever.  At least I’m pretty sure I didn’t completely pan this dating thing.  I mean, you got _something_ out of it, right?”

Rachel laughs and then just reaches up towards the arm rest for the TV remote.

“Stop worrying so much,” she then says, and settles her head on Santana’s shoulder before cueing up the first episode of season 2 of _Veronica Mars_.

*

It’s probably the first time in her life that she’s kissed someone goodnight after a _date_ \--really, there’s not much kissing involved in the fuck and run, and Brittany normally just slept over, so that’s not the same thing either--but it’s something she could get used to.

It’s nice.  It’s _more_ than nice.  It’s just kind of--yeah.

“See you tomorrow,” Rachel says, stepping away and only dropping her hand when she’s actually out of reach.

Santana watches her go and then gets out her phone immediately.

 _Next time, I won’t be wearing jeans_.

Rachel’s response is, _If you’re lucky, next time, you won’t be wearing anything_.

God, she’s completely not winning this game at all, and the most embarrassing thing is that she really just doesn’t care.

*

It’s so easy being together in the New York bubble that Santana almost forgets that it’s not just the two of them, in New York, without a single other person caring about what they’re doing.

With as many people in the city as there are, they’re essentially _nobodies_ \--and it’s not something she ever thought she’d say, but not being anyone is amazing.  It allows for things like small, quick kisses goodbye on street corners, or dinners together without anyone assuming that there’s something going on between them, and--

Yeah, she’s out, and Rachel doesn’t give a shit about what people think about them, but if they were doing _any_ of this in Lima, the entire town would have an opinion that would be forced down their throats.  In New York?  It’s really just them.

Brittany and Mike know things between them are slowly moving... somewhere, but even then, there’s not much to see--they act like they always have, and now that the barrista knows what’s up with her and Rachel, there isn’t any reason for her to go all caveman in public anyway.

The real progress just takes place between them, every afternoon and the occasional evening, where sometimes they just hang out together, or hit up a party together, and where sometimes there’s so much making out that Santana feels like she’s fourteen again, but doing it _right_ this time.  

It’s all kind of relaxing and low-key, which are two words she’d _never_ thought she’d associate with Rachel, but--she’s not the only one who learned everything she knows about love through bad past experiences, and it’s what’s helping them muddle through together.

Of course, the illusion that it’s just the two of them can only last so long.

In early November, on a morning when Rachel’s crashed on the couch just because they were up really late watching bad American remakes of Japanese horror films, she wakes up feeling so utterly content that it’s almost unreal, until she realizes _why_ she’s waking up, and it’s a call from Sam.

“Shit,” she says, sitting upright and waking Rachel up in the process.

“What--” Rachel starts to ask, but Santana shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips while she answers.

“Samwise--what’s up?” she asks, wondering _why_ the fuck she feels so terrible almost immediately, because she’s not doing anything wrong.  He and Rachel are _completely_ over, and it’s now been almost a year, and--

They’re all just excuses.  She’s a shitty friend, and that thought propels her off the couch and towards the kitchen.

“Just wondering what the plan is for Thanksgiving,” he says; there’s the sound of some sort of Wii game in the background, and Santana focuses on that--not sleepy-faced, mussed-haired Rachel on the couch, because...

God, she’s not even a _practicing_ Catholic, but there sure is some quality guilt happening right now.

“Uh--I guess we’re going to Pittsburgh,” she says, awkwardly.  “I mean, you’re welcome, obviously.  My mom would rather have you as her kid than me, at this point.”

“Dude, don’t be stupid,” Sam says, but he sounds so relieved that it makes her feel even worse.  “Um--and Quinn’s coming, right?”

“I thought you two talked like twice a week now,” Santana says, fiddling with the timer on the coffee maker until it comes on.  

“Well, yeah, but mostly about our guild and like, what our next campaign strategy is going to be,” Sam says, awkwardly.  “And, I mean, it’s your mom.  I know she’s like basically adopted Quinn, but it’s still weird to ask Quinn first, so--”

“Sam--we’re all going to Thanksgiving, okay?  My mom will burn a turkey and Quinn will make fantastic stuffing and some sort of sweet potato thing that you’ll love, and you’ll get to carve the turkey because whatever, sexism is completely alive when it comes to these holidays, so--”

“You’re rambling,” Sam says.

“I just woke up.”

“Shouldn’t you be too tired to ramble then?”

“Sam--” she says, warningly.

He laughs and says, “Geez, look at you and your dangerously short fuse.  It’s good to see some things never change.”

That’s exactly the wrong thing to say, because Rachel stretches on her way to the bathroom and gives her a small smile that says that this is equally awkward for both of them.

“You wanna play some Killzone with Chang and me later?” she asks, when there’s nothing else she can think to say that isn’t just a fucking apology he wouldn’t understand.

“Yeah, cool,” he says, easily, and then clears his throat.  “Hey, thanks for like--taking me in. You didn’t have to, you know, but I really appreciate it and--”

She actually feels her entire body cringe.  “No big, Sam.  Seriously.  You’re--one of us.”

“Well, I mean, thanks.  It means a lot,” he says, and then hangs up.

She drops her phone onto the counter and resists the urge to punch a cabinet.

Seconds later, Rachel wraps her into a hug from behind and says, “If anyone’s the terrible person here, it’s--”

“No, it’s not.  You two just crashed and burned.  You did _nothing_ wrong.  I’m the shitty friend that’s dating his ex-girlfriend, and I can’t even _tell_ him about it because--well, shit, I just can’t right now.”

A kiss is pressed to her cheek, and it’s so incongruous to what she’s saying that she blinks and half-turns to look at Rachel.

“We’ll tell him when--it’s time,” Rachel says, and then smiles so unexpectedly brightly that Santana feels her breath catch.  “You called it dating.”

“Um,” Santana says, stupidly.  The timer on the coffee goes off, and Rachel reaches for it blindly and shuts it down.

“Takebacks are fine, Santana, but--”

“No,” she says, before she can stop herself.  “I mean, I’m still not sure that I’m good at this, but--there isn’t anyone else.  There hasn’t been in months now, so--whatever.  If that’s what dating someone is--”

Rachel kisses her, breath minty fresh and cold, and stops her from making an even bigger ass out of herself; it’s a soft and sweet kiss--the kinds of kisses she exchanged with Britt back when they were too young to take it further, and back before everything got complicated.

“We can deal with everyone else as long as _we_ are on the same page,” Rachel finally says, pulling away with a soft pop.  “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Santana says, running a hand up to the back of Rachel’s neck and scratching there for a second, watching the absolute certainty in Rachel’s eyes.

Rachel’s always been about conquering the world one ambition at the time, and maybe that’s enough; all Santana can do is _hope_ that it is, because the alternative--that sometimes, the world wins no matter how hard you fight it--is almost unthinkable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the usual suspects and everyone else still following along. Reality is back for this chapter, unfortunately, and may cause some readership whiplash. NB: there's also some explicit sex in this part, because I enjoy causing whiplash in my audience. Those of you squeamish about such things can skip from when clothes start flying to the next * mark, where the story picks back up.

So, two days later she’s heading out of her Women in Jewish History class with Sarah, the TA, talking about the assignment that she’s taking up for extra credit just because her compulsory math class could be going better, and then she sees Rachel randomly out on the front steps waiting for her.

It flashes her back to Nationals in junior year, when Rachel had also been on steps a lot, in a ludicrous lollipop-colored coat and a stupid little beret, that... ugh.  This dating thing is seriously addling her brain, because sweet Jesus, she’s actually remembering the entire outfit as being kind of... cute.

Not that she’d ever say it out loud, and the current pea coat and striped scarf combination that Rachel has going on is a _massive_ improvement on high school Rachel fashion, so--she can’t really help the stupid smile on her face, or the eye-roll, when Rachel tips onto her toes and waves at her, like she’s in a massive crowd.

“Your friend looks happy to see you,” Sarah comments mildly, sounding amused.

Santana glances at her and wonders for just a second what the appropriate thing to do here is, but--she _knows_.  “Actually, that’s not my friend--come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Sarah looks confused for just a second and Rachel just smiles and says, “Hey--thought I could pick you up for Starbucks, I was at Juilliard just now and if you squint this is on the way.”

Santana hides another smile and then says, “Rach, this is Sarah--she TAs that Jewish Women’s History course that you still don’t believe I’m taking as anything other than a joke, which doesn’t really explain why I’m working my _ass_ off, but okay--”

“Hi,” Rachel says.  “Unlike her, I’m actually Jewish, and your course sounds amazing.”

They shake hands, and then Santana bites her lip and says, “And um, Sarah--this is my Rachel.  … my _girlfriend_ Rachel.”

She wonders what her face is doing right now without her permission, but neither of them are looking at her--Sarah just says, “Is she this much of a smart-ass when you get her away from her classes?”

“Worse, actually,” Rachel says, easily, and then slips an arm around her waist that she--okay, and this is a little sad--gladly sinks into.  “But, I just remind myself that her heart’s in the right place and she has a really pretty face, and... it compensates for a lot.”

Sarah laughs and then says, “Okay--I’ll email you about that interview project, okay?  We could use the help.  Rachel, if you speak Yiddish, we could use your help as well--”

“Not a word, unfortunately, not to mention that I go to Tisch,” Rachel says, in sort of a conspiratorial whisper that makes Sarah laugh again.  “We can’t be seen talking to each other, can we?”

Sarah heads off with another small laugh and Santana turns her best non-sheepish look to Rachel.

“This is _my Rachel_?” Rachel asks, in so flat a tone of voice that Santana really can’t tell if she’s amused or angry.  “I thought they were supposed to be teaching you about feminism at this degree.”

“Yeah, well, fuck _feminism_.  You _are_ my Rachel,” Santana says, as sternly as she can.

Rachel looks down for a moment, and Santana just sort of stupidly holds her breath, because _what_ has she done wrong now?  But then Rachel looks back up at her and says, “You know, I had plans for your birthday, but I really don’t think I can wait another two days.”

“You can’t wait another two days to.... what, buy me a cake?”

Rachel’s eyes flash with something and then, demurely, she murmurs, “ _Cake’s_ not exactly what I had in mind for eating right now.”

It’s a moment of personal triumph when her brain only halfway short-circuits at the words coming out of Rachel’s mouth, and the rest of her has the presence of mind to pull her in a little closer and look at her carefully.  “I’m--okay.  Yes, _please_.  My mind is like that ridiculous Ludacris song, about doing you every which way for the next eighteen million years, but--we were waiting for something, weren’t we?”

“Yeah, and what was that?”

Santana shrugs a little helplessly when Rachel follows the question with a quick lick to her own lips, which--ugh.

“Me to catch up to you.”

Rachel pulls on the collar of her jacket until they’re basically nose to nose.  “You just called me _your girlfriend_ to a total stranger without any prompting on my part.  What did you think I was waiting for, a love sonnet?”

Santana closes her eyes and smiles a little.  “Shit, honestly?  I _never_ know with you.”

“Santana--it’s you.  There are many things I don’t expect you to do or say soon, and some others that I don’t expect you to do or say _ever_ , but--you just called me _your girlfriend_ and I’m seriously so turned on right now that if we don’t leave right this minute I might just mount you on these steps.  Okay?”

Santana kisses her, hard and fast, just once, and then pulls away with a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing, just--Brittany was right.  Talking about feelings is totally underrated.”

Rachel elbows her in the side, and then starts walking faster than anyone with legs that short should be able to--straight to the subway, and straight to the apartment.

*

They’re already kissing in the doorway when they notice Mike on the couch with an X-Box controller and a bowl of cereal.

“Out,” Santana says, breaking the kiss off.  She glares at him and says, “Don’t _make_ me move you.”

“I--um, if you guys just go to your room, can’t I at least finish this mission?” Mike asks, feebly.

Santana counts to three in her head and then leans close to Rachel’s ear.  “Go ahead; start undressing, I’ll be there as soon as I’ve convinced him he doesn’t want to stick around to hear this.”

Rachel chuckles and heads to the back, already unbuttoning her coat; Santana, meanwhile, heads over to the couch and sits down on Mike’s lap and looks at him with narrowed eyes.

“I just--want to finish my mission,” Mike says, sounding incredibly depressed.

“Let me … put this to you straight.  I haven’t had sex in about six months now.  Oh, God, is that true?”  She pauses and makes a face.  “Yeah.  It’s been about six months.  So, I’m going to be... a little enthusiastic, if you know what I mean, and Rachel’s not exactly about volume control to begin with, so--when I’m telling you to leave, it’s for _your_ sake.”

Mike flushes to the tips of his ears and then clears his throat. “You’re not going to make me leave _every_ time that--”

“No, but I’d like you to be able to _look_ at me tomorrow, so--c’mon, man.  Give me this one thing.”

Mike stares at the TV for a long moment, and then shuts off his game.  Santana clambers off his lap, but right before she rounds the corner to her bedroom, Mike says, “Hey--about return favors?”

“What?”

His mouth twists for a second and then he says, “I’m going to ask Britt out.”

Her gut reaction is to tell him to back the fuck off.  It flares hard and sharp, and actually stops her in her tracks for a second, even though she’s on her way to some amazing sex with an amazingly naked girl and--

What is she even doing?

“When?”

“Not yet,” Mike concedes, and rubs at his face.  “It’s too soon for both of us, I think.  But when she’s better--”

“And you think she’ll say yes?” Santana asks, in a pretty small voice.

“I hope she will.”  Mike shrugs and then says, “Honestly, if it hadn’t been for you, I would’ve asked years ago.  But--”

“You don’t need my permission, Chang,” Santana says, cutting him off.

“No.  But if I’m going to have any luck at all, I _will_ need your approval,” he says, and then gets off the couch with his empty cereal bowl.  “So--I’m giving you some time.  To get used to the idea.  For your own sake.”

She can’t decide if she wants to punch him or congratulate him on being the only actually functional person in her entire group of friends; but when, in passing, he flicks a Fruit Loop at her, she knows she’s just going to smack him in his rock hard abs.

“I’ll be gone in three minutes,” he says.

She can make undressing last that long, she’s pretty sure.

*

Rachel’s down to her underwear when she closes and locks the door behind her, and smiles at her a little nervously before saying, “Honestly, I had this involved plan that involved a bow and a ribbon and possibly also me sitting in a box--sort of like that scene from that movie about the submarine with the stripper, but--”

 _Oh, God, I love you_.

What--

That’s _not_ a thought she wants to have right now, but it flashes through her mind anyway and freezes her into inaction.  Does she _say_ it?  Does she have to, or--does Rachel know anyway, and--

She knows she’s starting to fuck up when Rachel looks down briefly and then says, “You’re ready for this, aren’t you?  I mean--”

“Yes, God, a million times yes,” Santana just about manages, before fumbling with the zipper on her jacket.  “Just--stay there.  Just let me look at you.”

Rachel’s smile wavers for a second, but she sits down on the edge of the bed and stretches her legs out for a second anyway.  “I should probably be used to this; I mean, part of my future job does involve people staring at me like they’re--well.  Selecting the finest piece of meat for dinner, but--”

“If anyone ever looks at you the way that I’m looking at you now, I will _kill them_ ,” Santana says, shoving her jeans down her legs and stepping out of them.

“That kind of Neanderthal attitude _really_ doesn’t do it for me, Santana; honestly, a girl likes feeling attractive, and--”

“Will you just stop talking?” Santana says, half-laughing.  She’s still unbuttoning her shirt but fuck it, it’s taking too long, and Rachel’s crossing and uncrossing her legs without any guile whatsoever, which somehow makes it even _hotter_ that she’s doing it.

“Why don’t you come over here and make me?” Rachel says, before shifting back further onto the bed, until she’s leaning back on her elbows, and--when Santana takes two steps towards the bed, Rachel’s legs fucking _open sesame_ for her, creating just enough space for her to settle between.

She does; hell, maybe this is supposed to be _her_ birthday present with ribbons and whatever the hell else Rachel had cooked up to make it special, but there’s nothing more special than settling between her thighs and shifting upwards, inch by inch, until they’re face to face and their skin is touching _everywhere_.

They look at each other for a moment, Rachel’s hand coming up to run through her hair before it cups the back of her neck, and she feels another one of those unstoppable little smiles coming on.

“Yeah, I know,” Rachel says, when it appears, and pulls her down into a kiss that’s _completely_ the opposite of what the rest of Santana’s body wants to be doing--which is more along the, pin her down and _fuck_ her variety--but somehow settles her mind anyway.

This is different, and she knows it.  This is different because she’s not _resisting_ the idea of it being different, and when Rachel’s heel starts running up the back of her calf, she wraps both of her arms under Rachel’s shoulders and turns that sweet little kiss that started them off into something deep, meaningful, and heady.

They stay just like that, kissing for long minutes, until Rachel starts squirming underneath her, and fuck--how is she the one that’s lucky enough to bring _this_ out in Rachel?  Her relentless enthusiasm is borderline vomit-inducing in every other facet of her life, but the way she throws herself at intimacy is the sexiest thing Santana’s ever experienced.

She has _no_ shame; her hand scratches down Santana’s spine and actually claws on the way back up, when Santana shifts just enough to start pressing some kisses down her jaw, and--every single part of Rachel’s neck is an erogenous zone, it seems, or maybe it’s just the way they’re squeezed together, so tightly they can hardly breathe.

“What were you planning?” Santana finally murmurs, before biting down on a bit of skin and pulling on it gently.

Rachel gasps, those nails digging in harder again, and Santana realizes she kind of _likes_ it--being marked like that, and the slight sting of pain that comes with Rachel not caring too much about what she’s doing.  “Other than the ribbons?”

“Mmhmm.”

Rachel arches her neck backwards and Santana continues kissing and nipping a path down her neck, shifting just enough for a little bit of gentle pressure to settle between Rachel’s thighs, and the push of Rachel’s hips against her is enough to distract her for a second.

“I’ve... been doing some research,” Rachel says, sounding a little embarrassed.

Santana lifts her head and then pushes up a little bit more, until she can thumb the underside of Rachel’s breast with one hand.  “I’d say I’m surprised, but maybe I’ll just thank you for not making me sit through a Powerpoint presentation on the many ways in which I’m going to get fucked today.”

Rachel slaps at her shoulder.  “Don’t be _vulgar_ , God.”

“What?   _Sorry_ ,” Santana drawls, not meaning it for one second; to make up for it anyway, though, she lowers her mouth to Rachel’s baby pink bra and nips at her nipple through it.

“I don’t even know _why_ I like you sometimes,” Rachel mutters, but the way her back is bowing towards Santana’s mouth is telling a completely different story, and--yeah.  That’s the fun of them.  Words are foreplay all on their own, and it reminds her--she had a question.

“You like me because I’m really, really good at these kinds of things,” she says, looking at the wet patch she’s left on the bra and then tiring of it altogether; she slips her hand around Rachel’s back and, with just a flick of her thumb, undoes her bra.  “See?  I’m an expert.”

Rachel smiles at her indulgently and says, “Uh huh.”

“ _Seriously_ , though--what did you have planned?”

When Rachel flushes, she just knows that this is going to go beyond the averages of ‘you like me, I like you, let’s make orgasms’ type sex; and like, whatever, missionary type stuff with Rachel is hot as fuck, so she hasn’t actually fantasized about much beyond that--but _now_ , the idea of Rachel on her stomach, pressed flat against the mattress while being taken from behind is--oh, wow.

Rachel’s eyes darken at the feel of how much wetter she just got at her _own_ thought, and it seems to snap her out of it.

“I was going to um, suggest that … I experiment with going down on you by having you straddle my... um... face...”

Another visual slams through her brain and she actually freezes on top of Rachel completely at this point, fingers still looping around a bra strap she’s halfway done pulling off.  “Uh.  Okay?”

“Apparently, beginners … sometimes struggle with technique and need a little bit longer, and this was a recommended position to limit neck strain, so--”

“Okay, stop, stop--” Santana says, before rolling her eyes and laughing.  “Are you trying to give me whiplash?  You can’t go from like the hottest thing in the world straight to like, Dr. Berry, Medicine Woman, okay.  I mean, God, it’s like if I brought up your dads while going down on you--”

“Santana!” Rachel actually cries out, before covering her face.

“Yeah, _exactly_.  But um, regarding your suggestion...”  She pauses, and tracks back through her mental catalogue of things she’s done with girls, and--  “Yeah, I’ve never done that before, but I have no idea why not, because it sounds awesome.”

“Really?” Rachel asks, lowering her hands again and peeking out from behind them.

“Well, I mean, I’ve done it like _every other way_ , and let me tell you, 69-ing is seriously overrated unless you enjoy the combination of not getting off and being suffocated, but--”

Rachel sits up a little more, and pulls her in close, until they’re face to face again, and then there’s some more kissing.

“What else haven’t you done?” she asks, nipping at Santana’s lips and then soothing her bite with her tongue.

Santana smiles and says, “You hoping to be the first at some things?”

“Is that stupid?” Rachel asks, shifting forward until Santana’s forced to also sit, and then they’re basically just straddling each other on the bed, like they’re cuddling on the sofa--but different; so much more naked, and so much wetter.

“No, that’s--I mean, I _love_ knowing that nobody’s ever made you come as hard as I have, and that was on a first run.  I get it,” Santana says, before kissing her deeply again.

“So--what else is there?” Rachel asks, pulling away and licking her lips; maybe that’s just a reflex, but fuck, it’s sexy, and Santana finally gets rid of her bra and glances down at her two new best friends--they’ve been on her mind for months now, and fuck, they’re even more attractive than she remembered them.

“Your tits are … I mean, sorry, your _breasts_ are--”

“No, breasts isn’t a sexy word.  I’ll allow tits,” Rachel says, sounding like she’s smiling.

Santana’s right hand moves to cup one almost automatically, and when she starts running her thumb over Rachel’s nipple, the hitch in Rachel’s breath makes her clench hard.

“I’m--well, I’m a virgin in some ways,” she says, after a moment.

Rachel stares at her uncomprehendingly for a while and then her eyes widen.  “Oh, my _God_ , I don’t want to go there... I don’t think.  Oh, geez, do you?  …. I’m going to need some time to think about this, because...”

“Rach--I’m kidding,” Santana says, with a smile, before kissing her softly.  “You’re so easy sometimes, I can’t even.”

“Okay, well, … is there nothing else?” Rachel asks, sounding a little disappointed.

Maybe it’s something about the position they’re in, but she’s pressed up so tightly against Rachel’s hips that--it’s one of those times where she’s acutely reminded of the differences between the guys she used to sleep with and the girl she’s sleeping with now, and she knows that Rachel won’t be opposed to this, so--

“Maybe, in a while... we could play with the idea of toys,” she says, pinching Rachel’s nipple right on the word; nothing like positive associations to start an experiment.

“I _do_ really like penetration,” Rachel says, glancing down at the lack of space between them, and at the way that Santana’s fingers are still plucking at her breasts.

“Yeah?” Santana asks, and just like that, they’re done talking about all of this--thank fucking God, because she doesn’t think she can actually get more turned on and yet every word coming from Rachel’s mouth is egging her on further anyway.

“Yeah, I mean, God--but your fingers...” Rachel almost whimpers, and Santana’s had just about enough of all of this now; she pushes Rachel back into the mattress and slips off her just enough to reach for her panties and--well, fuck it.  Years of Cheerios didn’t give her ridiculous upper arm strength for nothing, and they’re a _hideous_ shade of pink to begin with.

Rachel’s low moan when she tears them off is another trigger, and she ducks her head enough to start sucking on the nipple she’s neglected; but really, even after just two seconds of that Rachel says, “Baby-- _please_ ”, and fuck.  They can take their time later--or maybe never.  She doesn’t really think she cares overly much; just runs her fingers down between Rachel’s legs, and waits for one of her legs to lift so she’s got some room, and then slips two fingers into her without warning.

“Yes,” Rachel just about hisses out, her hips immediately bucking forward, chasing more pleasure, and Santana bites down on her nipples and watches her thighs tremble in response.  “Oh, God, you’re so--”

Then, she curls her fingers, and scrapes them out a moment later, and the rest of Rachel’s sentence just chokes off; it drives her crazy, _finally_ having figured out what it takes to shut Rachel up, and she works her thumb against Rachel’s clit as a reward.

“Are you going to last this time?” she asks, not wanting to laugh but unable to help it when she sees the almost tortured expression of holding back on Rachel’s face--but then Rachel’s eyes blink open, and the look in them is just--

Her hand slows down, until her fingers are just gently pressing in and out, and she shifts back up and kisses her.

“What are you--”

“Trying something new,” Santana whispers, and keeps kissing her.  Rachel’s hips start a gentle rock into her hand, and it’s slow and nice and--yeah, this is the ticket.  They’re going to at the very least make it past the five minute mark, even if the thigh she’s straddling is starting to push up against her a little, and--why is she _always_ wearing pants or panties when this happens?  She just wants to _feel_ Rachel.

“Take them off,” Rachel exhales into the kiss, and when Santana says, “Take what--”

“Everything,” Rachel sighs, and even though she really doesn’t want to stop doing what she’s doing--God, they’re completely on the same page.

She’s off the bed for a second just to shuck everything she’s still got on, her bra landing on her laptop and her panties somewhere near but not in the laundry basket, and then she tries not to flush or squirm when Rachel stares at her for a long moment, before rolling onto her side.

“C’mere,” she finally says, holding out a hand, and they end up sharing a pillow, lying there face to face, legs tangling together briefly.

Rachel ducks her head forward to kiss her again, and then there’s a hand sliding up her side, cupping her breast and then stroking all around it, and--oh, she had _no idea_ how much she wanted this.  Her eyes flutter closed, but then startle open again when that same hand lightly scratches down her stomach, making her entire body quiver, before settling between her legs.

“Together.  You can sit on my face afterwards,” Rachel says, somehow making it sound _incredibly_ sweet, which--those same three words lash through her mind again, and maybe they’re showing on her face this time, because Rachel bites her lip and then pulls her in close with her free hand, kissing her until her lips hurt so much she wonders if they’re bleeding.

Her own hand finds it way between Rachel’s legs again, and Rachel does some ballet move or something that gives her just about enough space, and then it’s just them--toying with each other, laughing breathlessly into a kiss so uncoordinated and wet that it barely even qualifies as a kiss.  They last for much longer than Santana expects to, because Rachel’s low moans bring her closer to the edge with every passing second, but then eventually, Rachel’s breath catches and she says, “Oh--”

And somehow, Santana’s _still_ the first one of them to come, clenching around Rachel’s strong and seemingly knowing fingers--all that research must have paid off somehow--and then trembling all around her.  Rachel follows less than half a minute later, grinding down onto her fingers before fluttering to her own climax, pulling on her hair hard enough for it to hurt.

“That didn’t suck,” Santana finally says, when she thinks she can say something, but--there’s still not any words that come to mind.

“I’d make a joke about suction, but... I’m not you,” Rachel says, smiling.

“I’m not going to fall asleep again,” Santana promises, and Rachel laughs softly before running a hand through her hair.

“I know, baby.  You’re just recovering.”

“Mmhm,” she says, and presses in even closer, her sticky fingers trapped between them as a little reminder that this thing, between them, is so many shades of real that she can’t even describe it anymore.

It’s the last thing she thinks before--

*

Rachel spends the rest of the day, and the night, in her bed; they hole up in there for hours, and are still lying there, just talking about nonsense and kissing from time to time when Mike finally gets home.

It’s close to midnight when Rachel rolls over onto her stomach and says, “Where do you see yourself five years from now?”

It's not an entirely unexpected question; not coming from Rachel, who is basically part-composed of lists and hopes and dreams for the future. But--it's been a long time since she's had a plan of her own, and she's not entirely sure that she's ready to put whatever fleeting thoughts she has of _later_ out there, yet.

There’s a soft burn in her lower back, mostly from stretching muscles she hasn’t used in a while, and so she flexes it before glancing at Rachel and deflecting the best she can: with a small joke.  “I’m not you.  I don’t—picture stuff like that.”

“Humor me,” Rachel says, her hand kneading the pillow Santana’s head is on for a moment.  “You’d be surprised, also, what I see five years from now.”

“What, it’s not a mantle full of awards and a headlining performance in some big Lloyd Webber production?” Santana asks, with a small smile to take the sting out.

Rachel exhales slowly and then says, “I think... the problem with all my plans has always been that I’ve never accounted for other people in them.  Not in a _real_ way.  Friends, sure, hypothetically... but...”

“You thought you’d be alone,” Santana says, after a long moment; her fingers drift automatically and start running through Rachel’s hair, still barely touching the back of her neck even with a few weeks of growth.  She loves it short; doesn’t want to express an opinion on it just yet, but if she’s asked...

“No, I _knew_ I’d be alone.  Nobody would want to be with anyone that singularly focused on professional success,” Rachel admits, with a soft sigh.  “But now...”

Santana’s hand stills unwillingly.  “Um.”

“No, no,” Rachel says, shifting in closer and wrapping an arm around Santana’s waist.  “Don’t freak out.  I’m not saying that I picture forever with us.  It would be nice, but—I don’t want to be that girl with the cat calendar and the five point dating technique anymore.  All it got me was stuck in relationships where I expected too much of people I wasn’t in love with.”

Santana tries not to sound too relieved, but the twitch in Rachel’s lips lets her know she’s failing.  “So what are you saying?”

“That—I hope that I’m happy, five years from now.  Settled.  That there’s more to my life than my work, because I’ve experienced what it’s like to have that disappoint, and...”  Rachel shrugs and then buries her face in Santana’s chest; they’ve been shifting all over the bed like this most of the day, drifting apart when it gets too hot to be touching and pulling in closer again when they get chilly.

“I want to be almost graduating law school,” Santana says, after a moment.  “And... then I want to go practice in something that I care about.  Maybe this is lame, and totally cliché, but—after what McKinley was like, I have some pretty damn strong feelings about equality rights and that kind of thing.  Maybe family law, ... I don’t know.”

Rachel nuzzles her shoulder.  “What else?”

“I’d like a cat,” Santana says, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind when she stops concentrating so hard and just drifts.

“Yeah?”

“Hm.  And... for Quinn to be happy, with someone.”  She glances over after a second.  “If you ever tell her that I said this—”

Rachel chuckles.  “I’ll try to restrain myself from calling her tomorrow and gossiping about this conversation.”

The sheets billow above them when Santana shifts down a little more and tucks Rachel in even closer, even though it’s hot and sweaty and kind of gross—but whatever.  It’s easier to have her like this than to look at her, sometimes, and if she’s going to be talking about this...

“I want the same thing.  For me, I mean.  Be happy with someone, but as like—equals.  It would have to be someone that I can always be honest with, and someone I keep talking to as time goes on.  Drifting apart is just.....”  She hesitates briefly and then says.  “I don’t ever want what happened to my parents to happen to me, and I don’t ever want what happened with Britt to happen to me again, either.  So—five years from now, I want to be with someone who will work with me.  To make it work.”

“Do you think you’ll still be in the city?” Rachel asks, sleepily whispering the words against her neck.

Santana says nothing for a long time, and when she finally mumbles, “It’s looking likely, isn’t it”, Rachel’s probably already asleep.

She forces herself to stay awake as long as she can, just for the rare opportunity to watch Rachel when she’s not blabbing about something a mile a minute, and then when she’s finally starting to drift off, just wraps an arm around Rachel’s waist.

“Don’t go,” she murmurs into Rachel’s neck, who just burrows further into her and, half-asleep, says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

*

She has lunch with her friends on her birthday, and then gets picked up by Rachel later that afternoon for a “surprise”.

“Is this that party that I’m not supposed to know about?” Santana asks, raising an eyebrow.  “Because, honestly.  As far as surprise parties goes, this is the most announced one I’ve ever witnessed.”

Rachel tangles their hands together and then smiles.  “The party’s tomorrow.  I called dibs on today, and we’re doing—fun things.”

“Like what?”

“Like—getting matching tattoos,” Rachel says, plain faced.

Santana stares at her for a long moment.  “Okay, I’m _sure_ you’re kidding because a tattoo is on your list of things that will set your career back, but—”

Rachel grins and says, “I didn’t say they were permanent.”

“Oh, the gold star ones?” Santana asks, and it annoys her that she sounds excited because, holy _shit_ is that lame.  “I hope I get one for each orgasm I’m going to give you, because you’re going to have to fucking _cover_ my ass in them.”

Rachel just smiles for a second, but then her expression falters and she says, “I was actually completely kidding.  I don’t... want to overlap.  If that makes sense.”

It’s weirdly sweet, in a way.  “New traditions, huh?”

“Yeah,” Rachel sighs, and then pulls her in closer for a second, for a half-hug outside of their Starbucks.  “But anyway—I’m just making you dinner; Britt’s going to be gone to some recital thing, and—”

“Rach—just do what you were going to do, okay?  I’m sure I’ll love it,” Santana cuts her off, and—then there’s a soft, sweet kiss, in the middle of the street, but they’re both thinking that it’s been _two whole days_ since they last had sex and—

“You want to skip coffee?” Rachel asks, in a tone of voice that makes Santana squirm for a second.

“Yeah, but—I want to swing by mine, and pick up some clothes for tomorrow first.  I’m not going home tonight. Right?”

Rachel just shrugs and says, “We have all day.  We can do whatever you like.”

“Okay, then—let’s start with you, in my shower—it’s bigger than yours, and—”

Rachel laughs and pulls on her hand again.  “And they said that dating girls would be a more _mature_ experience than dating boys.”

*

She’s never felt like this before; so free to be whatever she wants to be, and it brings out a playful side of her that she hasn’t honestly _let_ out since middle school, before Quinn realized that they’d be entering a different social structure soon and it was important to learn how to carry themselves so they could be on top of it.

She doesn’t begrudge Quinn that; high school could’ve been a lot shittier for her than it had been, even in junior year, but something about Rachel’s relentless energy and general enthusiasm for anything makes her realize acutely that high school is long gone and nobody is going to knock her off the pyramid for just doing what she wants anymore.

Rachel pulls her back in the downstairs lobby and points towards her mailbox.  “Might want to check that.”

“Oh, shit, not another postcard,” Santana says, making a face, before pressing Rachel into the mail boxes and nipping at her neck.  “I don’t have like, fifteen hours to read another one of your miniscule print novels.”

Rachel sort of giggles—with some dignity—and then feels around her pockets for her keys.  “You’ll like this one, I promise.”

“Did you also think I’d like the _other_ ones?” Santana asks, and the levity drops away a bit.

After a moment of looking at her, Rachel just offers a tremulous smile and says, “I have no regrets about sending them.”

Santana smirks after a second and then steals the keys back, laughing when Rachel swats at her hand.  “Let’s see, then.”

There’s a stack of bills and junk flyers, and she sifts through them until she finally finds a postcard.  On it, there’s a cartoon drawing of a starry sky, and Santana snorts unwillingly before flipping it over.

 _Come away with me next summer—we’ll go somewhere where these are always visible and forget about everything else for a few weeks._

“You want me to Puckerman with you,” Santana says, after a beat.

Rachel shakes her head.  “The things I want to do with you, Puck would _laugh_ at me for—the only thing that this would have in common is the idea of sleeping out in the open sky.”

“Do I look like I enjoy camping to you?”

Rachel gets a sly look on her face.  “Well, not _now_ , but ... rumor has it you once built a tree house for yourself and your best friend and spent an entire summer climbing around it and not sleeping in your bedroom, so...”

Her glower is completely ineffective, even as she mumbles, “It is _so_ unfair that you two live together.”

“I want us to do this together.  Much as _Cosmo_ is wrong about everything to do with oral sex,” Rachel says, and Santana bursts out laughing before she can help herself, wrapping an arm back around Rachel’s waist, who adds, “... I think that they might have a point when they say that the true test of a relationship is traveling with someone.”

Santana laughs again when she thinks about cheerleading trips with Quinn and how many times she’s almost flung a hair straightener across the room and right at her skull.  “I, yeah, I can go with that theory.”

Rachel kisses her and then smiles a little uncertainly.  “The idea of—talking about next summer now—it’s not too much?”

It hadn’t even _occurred_ to her that this was like, seven months in the future, and she frowns after a second.  “No.”

“Good, because—”

She silences Rachel with another soft kiss.  “No matter what else I do, just know that I’m either all in or I’m not in at all, okay?  I don’t know how to do things halfway.”

The relieved look on Rachel’s face melts into a soft smile.  “Yeah, I know.  We have that in common.”

“S’not all we have in common,” Santana says, wondering if she can actually walk Rachel backwards up the stairs, because that would be _grand_ ; they could be kissing and making progress towards privacy at the same time, so—

The coy look on Rachel’s face when she asks, “What are you thinking?” is enough to make her softly groan and press their foreheads together.

“Fuck the shower—I’ll do you on the rug in the living room; let’s just go and—”

Rachel laughs and reaches for her hand, before taking the steps two at a time and tugging her along.

“Shit, if I break my neck you’re going to have to get yourself off, and—” Santana bitches, tripping along after her; Rachel laughs and pulls her onto the landing, before bracing her against the door to the apartment and kissing her so deeply that Santana feels her toes curl.

“Hey,” Rachel finally says, pulling away just enough to murmur the words.

“Hey,” Santana says back, and leans in to kiss her again when suddenly, the solid structure behind them gives way and they both go tumbling through the door together.

“Chang, I am going to—” Santana starts to say, in a low voice, even as Rachel laughs into her chest and mumbles, “Oh my God.”

It’s deadly silent for a moment in the apartment, and when Santana cranes her face back to see what’s going on, she sees—fucking animal balloons and Sam’s face, going from a shocked and wan super-white to the most disbelieving anger she’s ever seen on _anyone_.

“What the hell—“ he starts to say, and at the sound of his voice, Rachel’s head shoots up and she stares at him like she’s been electrocuted.

“Fuck,” Santana exhales, nudging at Rachel until she stands up and then getting up herself and closing the door behind them.

Rachel glances at Sam once more, but then looks past him to where Brittany’s pinning a piñata to the ceiling and says, “The party isn’t until tomorrow.”

“No, it’s her birthday today—and we agreed that—”

“Wednesday, Britt,” Rachel says, running a hand over her face.

“Yeah, that’s today, isn’t it?”

Mike shakes his head and whispers something into Britt’s ear, whose face falls.

“Tell me you were just leaning against the door for the no reason,” Sam finally says, forcing Santana to look away from the daggers that Rachel is staring at Brittany elsewhere in their tiny fucking apartment, and--

Her first instinct is to run a hand past her mouth, where her gloss is probably smudged to shit and mixed with Rachel’s and—he has to know.  He _has_ to know, especially when her hand falls away flatly and—

The door opens behind her, and Quinn bursts in with bags full of food and says, “Oh—hey, hang on, I thought this was supposed to be a surprise.”

“It was,” Sam says, flatly.

“Britt—get out of here,” Santana says, when he finally looks away from her and walks over to the window.  She ignores Quinn, for now, because—fuck.  That’s a different minefield for them to navigate.  “Chang, take her to her place, and—stay there until I call you, okay?”

“What’s going on?” Quinn asks, in a quiet and tense tone of voice.

Mike just nods, and heads into his bedroom for a small bag and Brittany’s purse, tugging it around her shoulder and wrapping an arm around her waist.  “It’s not your fault,” he says, audibly, and that’s when Rachel says, “No, Britt, of course it’s not.  It’s—”

“This is the worst party ever,” Brittany sighs after a moment, and then looks at Santana and shakes her head.  “I wish you hadn’t done that.  It’s not like there aren’t three hundred something days of the year when you could make out with Rachel and—”

The bags drop from Quinn’s hands, and she’s over next to Sam in the window in a flash, two hands on his shoulders and a whispered, “Oh, God, I’m so sorry” into his ear.

Rachel watches that with an unreadable expression, and Santana closes her eyes for a moment.

“Everyone who hasn’t had sex with Sam, _out_ , _now_ ,” she finally snaps.

Mike squeezes her shoulder on the way out and gives her a semi-sympathetic look, but—in the few weeks they’ve been living together, she’s learned that he’s not much for pity when it’s undeserved, and this is definitely a bed she made.

Rachel sits down on the sofa, as far away from everyone as she can get, and clamps her lips together while staring at the coffee table, and Santana glances down at the postcard in her right hand and then walks over to put it on the breakfast bar.

They don’t say anything for a long time, until Sam finally turns around to look at Santana, Quinn still at his side, and says, “You know, out of all the crappy things you’ve ever done, this really has to be a new personal best.”

“Sam—”

He looks at Rachel, instead of at her, and then says, “Is this why you broke up with me?”

Rachel takes a deep breath and says, “No.  I broke up with you because I wasn’t in love with you.”

Santana almost feels those words like a physical blow, much like Sam appears to, and Quinn’s hissed exhale is the third response to that that pretty much signifies they are not going to have a civil conversation about this.

“Nice, Berry.  _Real_ tactful.  I know thinking of other people’s feelings isn’t your forte by some distance, but given what you’ve _done_ to him, you could at least—“ Quinn starts saying.

Sam shuts her up with a look and then looks at Santana.  “So what.  You’re fucking her now?”

It’s so ugly, coming from Sam, who would normally _never_ use words like that, and—

“No,” she says, refusing to look at the floor.  “I’m in a relationship with her.”

Sam almost recoils at those words, and then laughs wryly.  “Yeah, I’m sure.  What are you—do you think that pretending it means something will make it _better_ , somehow?”

“No, I’m just telling you—”

“The truth?” he snaps at her.  “Were you _ever_ going to tell me?  Because apparently, _everyone_ knew about this except for me.”

“Sam,” Quinn says, softly, and he rails on her so unexpectedly that she takes a step back.

“And I know why _they_ were lying to me—but why the hell didn’t you tell me, Quinn?  You’re supposed to be my _friend_.”

“Since when, exactly?”  Rachel asks, reminding everyone she’s still in the room; she looks past Sam and at Quinn.

“It’s none of your business,” Quinn says, so coolly that Santana expects Rachel to stop asking questions, but instead she gets off the couch.

“Really?  Because—it’s funny.  I don’t really see how my relationship with Santana is any of your business either, but I’ve had to accept that you’re going to be a part of it no matter how much that makes me want to tear my hair out, so—I’ll ask you again, Quinn.  When exactly did you and Sam get so close?”

Sam shakes his head and says, “Unbelievable.  You’re sleeping with one of my best friends, you probably _dumped_ me for her, and now you’re turning this into a fight with Quinn because she’s what, being nice to me?”

“Oh, stop with the sanctimonious bullshit,” Santana finally says, when it’s clear that nobody is going to point out what the honking elephant in the room is.  “You want to get all angry about me sleeping with Rachel, but you’re not going to let her get angry about the fact that you fucked Quinn?”

“They’re not _friends_ ,” Sam says, pointedly.  “I don’t understand why she’d care if I slept with someone she barely even talks to—and anyway, it was just sex, so—”

Santana rolls her eyes so hard it hurts.  “Right.  Because that’s so much better.  You fall into bed with your ex-girlfriend, who happens to hate and bully your other ex-girlfriend, and it _just happens_ , but I fall in love with my best friend and roommate and I’m Satan all over again.  Is that how it is, Sam?”

She can’t look at any of them; Quinn still looks uncomfortably pained at Sam’s easy dismissal of their hook-up, which is just _too fucking bad_ for her; Rachel is staring at her with wide eyes, and she doesn’t actually register what she just said until Sam shakes his head at her and says, “Seriously—fuck _you_ , Santana.  As if it’s not bad enough that you lied to me about it, now you’re lying to _her_ about what this is?”

“I’m not—”

“You _tortured_ her for years.  You thought she was a total loser, and you treated her more like a pet project than a friend for most of the time I’ve known you.  And now?  Now that she’s—available to you?  So interested in you that it’s painfully obvious?  Is this just about your ego, or what?  Because the idea that you’re _in love_ with Rachel is just—”

The flinch on Rachel’s face actually hurts her heart, and if not for the fact that Quinn almost instinctively steps in front of Sam, she would’ve decked him.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” she says, as calmly as she can.  “And you don’t know a _thing_ about what I’m doing with Rachel, so—I get that you’re upset, but you better stop before you say something I’m not going to be able to forgive you for.”

Sam scoffs, but his shoulders slump a little anyway and then he says, “You think I want your forgiveness?  I’m not—I don’t even think I ever want to see either of you again.”

“Sam,” Rachel says, softly.

“No, I mean, what can you possibly say to make this better?  You apparently left me for _one of my best friends_ , Rachel.  I was going to ask you to move in with me next year, and you passed me up for someone who thinks that two one-night stands make a relationship.  I just…”

Santana forces herself to look away when it’s clear that his anger has passed, and now he’s just—fuck. 

She can’t _handle_ him being like this, and can’t handle how guilty Rachel looks either; the only saving grace is that when Quinn puts a hand on the small of his back, he shrugs that off as well and, in a pained voice, says, “I can’t believe all of you have been lying to me for—how long has this been going on?”

“Two months,” Santana says, even as Quinn mumbles, “Right around the time we…”

Sam looks between them again and then just says, “I need to go.  I need to get out of here and—”

“Sam, you’re in no state to drive back,” Quinn says, pleadingly.  “Let me—”

“I don’t think so,” he says, shaking his head.  “You’ve made it clear whose side you’re on in this, and I don’t need more friends who will lie to me to spare my feelings.  I just—”

His letterman’s on Rachel’s chair, and he roughly pulls on it before shouldering past Santana and out the door.

It slams shut on them, and Santana sinks back against the breakfast bar before running her hands over her face.

It feels like the worst is over, though, and she’s about to make her way over to Rachel when Quinn beats her to it, and says, “Thanks a lot.  Both of you, really—as if it’s somehow _my_ fault that Rachel’s an unscrupulous _bitch_ and you don’t know how to say no to undivided attention because you’re so hard up for having _someone_ who loves you.”

Rachel’s slow, measured breathing is the only sound in the room for a moment, and then she gets up.  “Quinn, I think—”

“Do you?  _Ever_?” Quinn asks, snidely.  “Because, you see, I find you more tolerable on principle if you just _accidentally_ go after every single thing that I have in this world, but after Finn, and Sam, and now _her_ , I’m starting to find it impossible to believe that you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Rachel’s mouth clamps shut, and Santana looks between them furiously; they’ve never actually come to physical blows before, but somehow _this_ is going to be thing that sets Quinn off, and—

“Why _her_?” Quinn finally asks, sounding both terrified and furious.  “You’re not even _gay_ , Rachel.  You’re just interested in status, and there isn’t someone else in New York that could live up to the ideal leading man for you?  Nobody else who—”

“I’m not gay,” Rachel says, seemingly calm, but there’s an undercurrent of tension in her voice that actually kind of scares Santana.  “But I’m also not _you_ , and outward perception will never determine who I do and don’t date.  Let me ask you, though—when exactly did sleeping with Sam become an option for you, Quinn?  Was it before or _after_ it was clear that his dyslexia wouldn’t stop him from having a successful career in the hard sciences?  Before or _after_ it was clear to you that he’d make it out of Ohio and would be able to—”

The slap echoes throughout the room loudly, and Rachel takes it with a small smile.

“It must really pain you to know that you’re not in the right enough to win this argument with words,” she says, before cupping her cheek and rubbing at it for a moment.

“I’m not right?” Quinn asks, and there’s a crack in her voice that means that that slap hurt her _more_ than it hurt Rachel; there’s just such a loss of control there and Santana almost steps in between them but—no.  This isn’t even really about _her_ , anymore.  “Give me a _break_ , Rachel.  I’m not the one who messed Sam around for months while secretly in love with someone else.  I guess the fact that she’s my best friend is just a bonus; one more to add to the collection of my seconds that you’ve been building since high school, right?”

Rachel stares at her disbelievingly for a moment and then says, “Are you _crazy_?”

“I don’t—”

“You have _never_ had Santana the way that I want and have her, Quinn.  If you can’t understand that, I don’t know how to help you.”

Something flashes across Quinn’s face.  “She’s _family_.”

“And what do you think she is to me?  Whose parents did she have dinner with all the time in high school?  Who _lives_ with her now?  Who has a life with her?” Rachel asks, sounding exasperated.

Quinn’s smile is sharp.  “Really, Rachel?  You want to go there?”

“Look _around you_ , Quinn.  This entire apartment is a testament to the fact that I have something with her that you never will, and I don’t even live in it anymore,” Rachel says, and there’s smugness there that she’s never heard in Rachel’s voice before; it’s not entirely attractive, but then Quinn is pushing so many buttons that it’s hard to get upset about _that_.

“Yes.  It is.  But let’s not forget that it’s also a testament to the fact that you have always been, and will always be, her second choice.”

Rachel’s eyes close slowly and then blink back open.  “You have no idea—”

“You really think you’d be in her life at all anymore now if I hadn’t gotten fucked over by Columbia’s student loan department?” Quinn asks, with so much bitterness that it hurts Santana to hear it.  “You really think that—she’d even be talking to you anymore if I’d managed to make it her as her roommate?  If the life we’d planned together would have worked out?  Face it, Rachel.  She _pitied_ you, in high school, but she’s only ever had one actual best friend and—”

“—and that’s Brittany,” Rachel says, calmly.  “If I’m second choice, so are you, Quinn.”

“That may be, but I don’t mind being second choice to someone who’s actually _good_ for her.  And don’t kid yourself, Rachel.  She’ll _always_ love Brittany.  More than she could ever love you,” Quinn finishes, with so much bite that Rachel’s face draws shut again and then she sits back down on the sofa, her hand still cupping her cheek.

“Q,” Santana finally says, drawing her attention away.

“Oh, don’t get me started on your part in this,” Quinn says, sharply, looking over.  “I don’t even know what you think you’re doing.”

“I’m _growing up_ ,” Santana says, darkly.  “You might want to give it a go yourself.”

“Growing up to _what?_ Someone with so much self-involved tunnel vision that they actually _think_ that they can get away with not going to college and will somehow achieve stardom?  I mean, let’s face it, she was a big fish in Lima, but this is the _real world_ , and she’s not going to be good enough to make it.  If anything, the last year proved that to all of us—and then what is she, really?  Nothing but a massive ego with nothing else to show for it.”

When Santana glances over at Rachel, she’s withdrawn to the point that she’s not going to be participating in this conversation anymore, and when she next looks at Quinn, Quinn actually gulps at the look on her face.

“You think I’m with her because she’s _talented_?”

“Well, God, I sure as hell hope it’s not because she’s modest and easy-going and wonderful, because—” Quinn snarks.

“What is wrong with you?” Santana asks, completely at a loss.  “I mean, can you really not tell what you’re doing right now?”

Quinn shuts up for just a moment, and then grits out, “You should have _told him_.  Before he found out like he did.”

“Yeah, we should have.”

“And now he’s pissed off at _me_ because I had your back, and—”

“Quinn,” Santana says, flatly.  “I don’t care.  He was going to be pissed off either way, and I didn’t ask you to lie for us.  You did that all on your own.”

“I didn’t lie for _her_ ,” Quinn says, pointedly.  “I really just—”

“You don’t have to get it.  I’m just asking you to accept it.”

Quinn glances at Rachel again, who’s still just staring at the table, and then shakes her head.  “Out of _all the people_ in the world, Santana, why did it have to be _her_?”

“You don’t know her like I do,” Santana says.

“No, you’re right.  I just know her as the ruthless social climber who can’t help but go after people who will help her get ahead, but somehow manages to pass it off so earnestly that I end up looking like the bitch no matter _how_ many times she goes after the people that matter to me.  And now she’s gone after the most important person in my life, and—”  Quinn stops and wipes at her eyes.  “And she’s won.  Hasn’t she.”

Santana exhales softly.  “Q—I warned you.  I _begged_ you not to make me choose.”

“Yeah, you did,” Quinn says, and the tears in her voice are clear.  “But you don’t get it; it’s not a choice.  I don’t think she’s _good enough_ for you, Santana.  I don’t think she deserves you, because look at how she treated Sam when she was with him.  One day, she’ll find someone new, someone with even more potential, and she’ll run you over to get to that person, because it’s _what she does_ , and I don’t know how after _all this time_ I’m still the only person who sees it.”

Rachel’s eyes slip shut for a moment, and then she just says, “Excuse me” and heads to Santana’s bedroom.

Quinn watches her go with a veiled look on her face and then looks at Santana pleadingly.  “I know you think you’re in love with her, but you’re barely even twenty years _old_ and she’s just some _girl_ you’re sleeping with, Santana.  Is she really worth throwing everything we’ve planned for away?  I’m _so close_ to transferring, and we can live together and--”

“You really _don’t_ get it, do you,” Santana says, and fuck, now she’s crying, too.

“I get it, but I don’t think you do.  Of course you love her; she’s made you forget about Brittany, and yeah, I’m sure that it matters, but I just want you to open your eyes and think about what you’re doing here.  If you choose her, Sam is never going to be your friend again.  You’ll crush Britt, on some level, and you know it.  And I—”

The unfinished sentence hangs between them awkwardly.

“I’ll lose you, too,” Santana says, her voice breaking on the words.

“I just don’t know how to do this,” Quinn admits, and then sighs.

Santana takes a deep breath, and runs her hands through her hair and then sniffles once, hard, but just once.  “I’m not—having you lose another family because of this.”

Quinn stares at her for a long moment, and then says, sounding very relieved, “She’ll get over it, Santana, I just—”

“You can go and celebrate Thanksgiving at my mom’s.  You can take Sam, if you want,” Santana says, as measured as she can, and then finally looks Quinn in the eyes.  “You can have Christmas too, and you’ll always have a place to crash there, if you need it.  But I don’t ever want to see you again.”

It breaks her heart, to see the shock on Quinn’s face, but she refuses to look away from it when she shakes her head.

“I _warned_ you, Quinn.  You think that the fact that you’re my best friend isn’t hell on Rachel?  She’s terrified of you, and on top of that she dislikes you, but she puts up with it because of _me_.  And honestly, I need a best friend who can listen to me talk about my girlfriend, and how happy she makes me, without looking like she’s going to throw up.”  She presses her palms into her eye sockets for a few seconds, willing herself not to cry, and then says, “You think that we’re doing this because we’re confused, or desperate for attention, or lonely.  Until you can accept that I’m with her because I fucking _love_ her, I just can’t have you in my life.”

Quinn’s voice is unrecognizable when she says, “You’re going to regret this.  She’s going to want something bigger than you, some day, and she won’t hesitate to shove you to the side to get to it, Santana.  I know she will, because it’s the only thing she and I have ever had in common.”

“She is _nothing_ like you,” Santana says, quietly.  “And that’s your loss, honestly.”

There is absolutely nothing else they could possibly say to each other, and Quinn reaches for her purse on Rachel’s chair with one more look back at Santana.

“Just go,” Santana says, and she really needs Quinn to do it, right now, because—God knows this can only get uglier.  She’s managed to clamp down on most of her anger and most of her disappointment, but if she thinks about the look on Rachel’s face for one more second—it won’t be the first time she’s punched Quinn, but this time she might actually break her face in.  “I mean it.  Get _out_ , Q.  Get out of my apartment, and get out of my life.”

The door clicks shut behind Quinn quietly, and Santana sinks down to the floor next to the breakfast counter; God, she doesn’t have the energy to cry, but her eyes aren’t listening to her anyway, and she can’t stop until Rachel’s measured footsteps reach her and she feels, more than sees, someone sink down next to her.

“She’s wrong about me,” Rachel says, her voice rough and swollen-sounding, and Santana drops her forehead to her knees.  “And she’s completely wrong about us.”

“I know that, but—” Santana says, and then a sob wrenches itself from her throat.  “She’s like a sister to me.  And—”

“She’ll come around.  Santana, she said some terrible things, but they’re all rooted in this irrational fear that with _me_ in your life, there is no space for her.  She’ll _come around_ ,” Rachel says, reaching for her knee and squeezing it softly.

They sit in silence for a long moment, the balloon animals pressed up against the ceiling right above them, and then Santana sighs.

“B wasn’t wrong.  This pretty much takes the cake in terms of worst birthday ever, and on my twelfth birthday I discovered I’m allergic to stone fruit by almost dying from eating some cherries.”

“It’s not the best one, but…” Rachel says, dropping her head to Santana’s shoulder and sighing deeply.  “Up until my seventeenth birthday, I always spent it alone with my fathers.  I guess it was nice enough, but—I never got to spent my birthday with…”

“With what?” Santana asks, and flinches as Rachel runs her palms under her eyes, drying them a little.

“With… someone I love,” Rachel says, softly.

“Yeah, there is that,” Santana agrees tiredly, tipping her head back against the breakfast bar.

“And you trust that I feel the same?” Rachel asks.

Santana just nods, and then sighs deeply.  “I need a place to go, for Thanksgiving.  Do you think that…”

“My dads will be happy to have you,” Rachel promises.

“No shotguns, right?”

Rachel’s slight smile almost makes her forget what just happened, but it’s not until she feels a small kiss being pressed up against her forehead that she actually feels like she can breathe again.  Just for a second, anyway.

“I have you,” Rachel says, right into her ear, before gripping her into a tight hug.  “They’ll come around, and until then, I have you.”

It’s just going to have to be enough, for now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for still waiting patiently as this story almost, almost reaches its end; and for all your lovely feedback along the way. One more section of wssp after this, and then 3 interludes and an epilogue to wrap up. Just hang in there!

So.

It’s a rough day.

Rachel spends most of the afternoon quietly cleaning up party supplies while Santana sits on the couch, staring mutely ahead and clutching her phone.

She’s not even sure which one of them she hopes will call, but--

Hell. She’s not even sure if she even hopes they’ll call at all.

She’s going to have to call her mother; explain that Sam and Quinn might be coming, but she won’t be.  Explain that to her mom that she’s going to be without her _actual_ kid just so the adopted ones have a place to go.  Explain that that’s still necessary, even though she’s furious with Quinn (and so disappointed in her; so _bitterly_ disappointed, like the way that Quinn got captaincy back from her in junior year was nothing more than a brief flicker in the force).

She watches as Rachel moves around an apartment that, Mike or no Mike, she’ll always think of as _theirs,_ and then finally sits down on the coffee table across from here, with dark, wounded eyes.

“I want a redo.  Of your birthday,” she finally says, quietly, leaning forward and putting a hand on Santana’s knee.  “I want to give you.... the kind of birthday that you’ll never admit to wanting, but secretly wouldn’t mind at all; a big party, with all of your friends, followed by a romantic getaway and--I don’t know.  Something _special_.  I’d like to see New Orleans with you, or maybe show you around Chicago, now that I know it a little.”

Santana’s mind catches on _all of your friends_ and she gnaws on the inside of her lip for a second.  “Yeah, whatever.”

“I’ll plan it for whenever Quinn’s done being.... something I won’t actually call her, and... Sam is such a decent guy, Santana; once he realizes that we’re not doing this to hurt him, he’ll learn to cope with it,” Rachel says, with a soft sigh.

“Can we just--go to bed or something?  I really don’t want to be awake anymore,” Santana says, after another dense moment of silence between them.

Rachel reaches for her hand, but doesn’t grab it; and when she makes that final step herself, it _still_ feels like she did the right thing, even though it’s killing her a little.

She pretends not to hear the soft, “thank you for choosing me” that Rachel presses into her neck right before she falls asleep, and pretends not to feel the tight way that Rachel’s hand is knitted into her tank top all night.

It takes her until 11 to fall asleep, and when she does, she dreams of winning Nationals; except Quinn beats Rachel to death with the trophy, and all she can do is stand there and laugh.

...

When she opens her eyes, Rachel isn’t there.  
   
Rachel was right there when she fell asleep, and now she’s _not there_.

She completely panics, to the point where she actually runs into the living room in her underwear, only to see Rachel at the tap in one of Santana’s shirts and some panties, pouring a glass of water.

“Fuck,” she exhales, and sinks against the wall between the bedrooms.  Then, there’s tears in her eyes and--what the hell, she can’t even decide what she’s feeling: relief?  Anger?  Maybe a little bit of both?

“Oh, baby, no,” Rachel says, sounding apologetic.  “I’m so sorry.  I was just getting us something to eat and some water because we didn’t eat anything yesterday and--”

“I know, it’s okay,” Santana says, sniffing hard just once and wiping at her eyes.  “Just--”

“I’m really sorry,” Rachel says again, and then there’s arms around her back and a rough cotton shirt pressing into her front, and she sinks her forehead down onto Rachel’s shoulder.  “I’m really, really sorry.  It’ll never happen again.  Okay?”

She just nods, because she doesn’t trust her own voice, and after a long moment, she hears Rachel take a deep breath.  

“Do you--want to maybe watch some TV?  I’m making a snack, and--”

All of that sounds like the sane thing to do, but--when she opens her eyes and looks at Rachel again, the spike of want in her gut is completely unexpected.  It’s not about the shirt, or Rachel’s tired, red eyes, or even the concern and--yeah, that other feeling--that’s clear in them.  A normal person would maybe want a hug, or something, but--

She needs Rachel to not _ever_ leave like that again, especially not after the day they had yesterday, and she can only think of one way to make sure that she doesn’t.

“Get on the counter,” she says, more roughly than she intends to, but when Rachel’s nostrils flare in response, she knows that it’s not entirely unwelcome anyway.

She guides Rachel backwards by her hips and then nudges her onto the counter, until her head’s resting against a cabinet and her legs are dangling off the edge.

“Are you sure--” Rachel murmurs after a moment, but then Santana just reaches for her knees and pushes her legs apart, and Rachel’s sentence trails off into a low, slow breath.

“Remember the last time?  You said you were fucking yourself three times a day ,” Santana says, her eyes mapping Rachel’s thighs; and fuck, she doesn’t know where this impulse is coming from at all, but she wants to mark them—leave traces of herself _everywhere_ , and go down low enough that Rachel won’t be able to wear a skirt for days without having awkward questions to answer.

Rachel says nothing in response, but when Santana finally glances up at her again, her eyes are an unrecognizable dark and her lips are slightly parted.

“Show me,” Santana says; no, _demands_ , her hands still cupping the inside of Rachel’s knees, and—oh, she doesn’t even know where she’s taking this, but when Rachel’s hand leaves the edge of the counter and slips under the open edges of her borrowed dress shirt and into her panties, she can’t really believe her luck.

Sex with Brittany—that had always been sweet and exploratory.  She hadn’t been ready for it, in so many ways.  Sex with all the other girls she’s been with was again about holding back, but only because there’s only _so_ many things she’s comfortable saying to someone she hardly even knows.

But Rachel?  She just _gets_ Rachel, and Rachel apparently will do anything she asks her to, and now that’s resulted in knuckles flexing against the outside of a pair of soaked-through panties, a heel digging into a kitchen cabinet, and Rachel’s slow, measured breaths that sound... like they’re waiting.  For more instruction.

Her head reels a little, and fuck, the little sloppy wet sounds that Rachel’s fingers are drawing out of her own body are making her almost unbearably hot.

“What am I doing to you, when you do this?” she asks, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice.  It doesn’t occur to her until afterwards that maybe, Rachel doesn’t think about _her_ , but—when Rachel gasps and her hand speeds up its circling for a moment, she knows she hit jackpot.

“You’re—it depends,” Rachel says, closing her eyes and craning her neck backwards; her hips are starting to lift off the counter a little bit now, and Santana lets go of her knees and reaches for her hips, holding her in place.

“Tell me,” she insists, leaning forward and sucking a small bite at the base of Rachel’s throat; something she’s going to have to cover up, and Rachel will probably make her pay for that one later, but she doesn’t care at all.  She just needs—

“Your hands,” Rachel breathes out, and those knuckles curl a little bit more; Santana inhales so sharply it echoes through the room.  “Your fingers; not just inside of me, but—”

“What else?”

“Your mouth,” Rachel confesses, her eyes fluttering open again, lips still parted and a low moan escaping them.  “I can’t remember it clearly, but—”

They’re magic words, because _nobody_ should forget how good she is at this; nobody at all, and even though some part of her objectively realizes this is going to lead to bruising everywhere, her hands slide forward until she’s grabbing Rachel by the waist and pulling her off the counter.

“What—” Rachel asks, but doesn’t get a chance to say much else, because then they’re tumbling to the floor together, and by the time she can ask, “What—“ a second time, Santana’s already pulling her panties off and nudging her own hand aside.

The last time, she barely got a few _seconds_ of doing this, but now, with Rachel more or less holding herself open, she’s going to take her fucking time. Rachel is going to remember this; this is going to be burned into Rachel’s brain to the point where every time she so much as _thinks_ about oral sex, Santana’s mouth will be the first thing that comes to mind—the _only_ thing that comes to mind.

And God, it’s no hardship to take her time.  “You taste really good,” she says, her lips pressing the words right up against the apex of Rachel’s thighs, which tremble in response.  “I mean it.”

The way that Rachel shakes in response to her words let her know she’s on the right track; and she could get used to this, the idea of talking each other through mind-blowing orgasms.

Rachel’s scrambling for purchase against the floor, but is really just dependent on Santana’s hands to hold her in place, and eventually she gives up on gripping the linoleum beneath them; instead, she unbuttons the shirt a little bit more, and when Santana glances up, Rachel’s playing with her own breasts.   _God._ It just fires her on a little bit more, and she runs the tip of her tongue right up against Rachel’s clit, stroking around it gently--just enough to make her wetter, but not to give her the pressure that she needs and will be begging for soon.

For once, Rachel’s not talking, and the silence is amplifying her little whimpers and the way that her hips keep threatening to work off the kitchen floor, producing a painful-sounding squeak every time.  They’re going to have some quality not-rug-burn tomorrow; Santana’s knees are already starting to ache, but it doesn’t matter—not when, when she lifts Rachel’s hips off the floor a little bit more and teasingly licks at her entrance, Rachel lets out such a surprised sounding moan that it makes her laugh.

“How am I doing?” she murmurs a moment later, biting down on Rachel’s inner thigh sharply to get her attention.

Rachel just lets out something of a groan in response, followed by, a “Please— _more_ ” that Santana doesn’t really have the heart or the will to deny.

She switches it up; sucks on Rachel’s clit for a few beats, and then gently licks away from it, before blowing some cool air on it and then scraping her teeth past it lightly enough for it not to hurt, but the feeling’s definitely _there_ enough for Rachel to lower a hand and dig it into her hair.  Fuck, she loves that—the way Rachel just gets fed up and forces her to stay in place, and it’s only been one other time but she can already tell that this is how they work: she’ll tease, and Rachel will love that, until eventually they both get sick of it and Rachel just demands whatever it is that she really wants.

Santana doesn’t mind being a giver; not when _this_ is the gift, anyway.

When Rachel pulls on her hair a little harder and says, “In my fantasies—oh, your fingers are always—and your tongue,” like that’s even _half_ a complete sentence, Santana smirks and says, “You want it all?”

“God, _yes,”_ Rachel exhales, and the time for teasing is officially done.

She watches, carefully, as Rachel’s brow knits together when she slips two fingers inside, scissoring them in complement to the slow suction her mouth is applying further north, and keeps building up the pressure and pace of that until Rachel’s mouth falls open and she just keens for a second.

“I’m going to try something,” Santana says, softly, pulling away from her clit as soon as she’s coming, and just working her fingers in more gently; pressing upwards and hooking, and then rubbing just there, all the while watching as Rachel spasms around her and gasps for air—and then it happens; her head jerks upwards and her eyes shoot open in surprise, and she says, “ _No_ ”, but what it really means is _“Yes_ ”, and then her head slams back into the floor hard enough for the crack to probably concern the downstairs neighbours.

Her fingers plainly _hurt_ from that second orgasm, which hit harder and _tighter_ than the first one, and she’s careful to gently pull out because—Rachel is already wincing and reaching upwards for her head.

“Shit—are you okay?” Santana asks; she crawls upwards, cups Rachel’s head with her dry hand and looks at her eyes for responsiveness.  She’s drowsy, but—well, who wouldn’t be.

“Yeah, I think so... though I’m having some really strange pain and pleasure associations right now,” Rachel says, before taking a deep breath and saying, “I’m—wow.  That was...”

“Better than a Slip & Slide,” Santana says, laughing when Rachel swats at her.  “Seriously, though.”  She holds up her fingers as evidence, and Rachel flushes a little—which, what the fuck even.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Santana says, with a frown.  “You taste great, and you’re _supposed_ to get wet, so whatever.”

Rachel looks at her for a moment and then says, “Can I?”

“Can you what?” Santana asks, and then watches as Rachel reaches for the hand she’s holding up, and tentatively licks at Santana’s wet fingers.

Oh, _damn_.

“Hm,” Rachel says, before looking up at her with a curious expression on her face.  “What about you?  What do you taste like?”

Santana takes a deep breath and says, “Uh—we can deal with that later, you know, when I’m sure you didn’t actually crack your skull.”

“Santana, I’m _fine;_ stop worrying so much.  Nobody has ever actually died from—was that a g-spot orgasm?”

“Thanks, Medicine Woman,” Santana says, making a face.  “Way to make it sound hot, babe.  Really.”

Rachel laughs and pulls her down for another one of those non-congruent kisses, and when it happens—when she realizes that _this_ is her favourite part of everything they’ve done together, those soft no-tongue kisses that really are just lips sliding together—she realizes she’s a whole new measure of in trouble.

She’s never going to have the upper hand with Rachel.  It’s already too far gone for that, and—the most worrying thing is that she’s forgetting that she cares.

“You’re _sure_ you don’t have a concussion?” she asks, more to be polite than because she gives a fuck; with the way Rachel’s still licking her lips, she’s already moved her hands down to her boy shorts and they’re about a second away from being pushed off her hips altogether..

Rachel just rolls her eyes, which—yeah, she’s pretty sure people in mortal danger wouldn’t choose _that_ as their response, so—

“C’mere,” Rachel just says, tugging on her waist, and then those shorts are gone and she’s shifting forward, until her hands are gripping the edge of the kitchen counter and the rest of her is—oh, _fuck_.

Her heart hurts as much as it did ten hours ago, when Quinn slammed that door shut, but for the first time in those ten hours, she stops thinking altogether and just focuses on how she feels when Rachel’s tongue swipes against her for the first time.

...

It doesn’t surprise that when she’s done catching her breath, and sliding down next to Rachel on the floor, Rachel cranes her head back and looks at her with a serious expression and says, “This can’t be your coping mechanism; I love you, and I love having sex with you, but I know what you’re like and--”

“You know, you’ve been saying that a lot lately, and it’s getting to the point where it’s a little fucking condescending,” she forces out, even though she _doesn’t_ want to get annoyed, and maybe there’s a little bit of a point to what Rachel is saying.

Rachel’s silent for a moment and then just reaches for her shin, which is the part nearest to her hand, and strokes it for a moment.  “I’m here if you actually want to talk, is all I meant.  I know Quinn is who you normally talk to about these things, and--”

“God,” Santana exhales, before sitting up and finding her underwear a few feet further down.  “It’s been less than a day.  It’s--”

“I’ve had a lot of therapy, and honestly, the first few days of reacting to something like this...” Rachel starts to say.

Santana sighs.  “Rachel--I don’t want to be a bitch to you, so please don’t make me and for once in your life just _respect_ that I don’t want to fucking hear what you have to say, okay?”

Rachel sits up as well and then just takes a deep breath.  “Okay.  You’re right.  I don’t want to fight, so--tell me what you need, right now.”

The first thing that comes to mind will hurt, but it’s also the truth.

“I need to see Britt,” she says, in as small a voice as possible.  “Not because--you’re not enough, or whatever, but because for a long time it was me and her and Quinn, and she’s not involved in this, and--”

“You don’t think Quinn was right, do you?” Rachel asks, tentatively.  “That--she still has feelings for you?”

“You heard that?” Santana asks, with a frown.

“The walls aren’t exactly...”

“Yeah, well.  Quinn’s living in like five fucking years ago; before she got pregnant and started screwing up, and before there was anything in my life who wasn’t someone she approved of.  She’s full of shit.  All Brittany’s _ever_ wanted is for both of us to be happy.”  She takes a deep breath and then admits, “ _I_ was the one who was hung up on that only happening if we were happy _together_.  She’s always just... had a lot of love in her heart, you know?”

Rachel makes a non-committal noise in the back of her throat, and Santana sighs.

“Don’t be threatened by her.  You’ve lived with her and dated me for ages now, and has she _ever_ done anything--”

“It’s not that,” Rachel says, and smiles a little sadly.  “It’s just that... it would be great to have a friend like that, who isn’t _also_ my girlfriend.”

Santana tries not to wince, and then just shakes her head.  “Rach--”

“No, you’re right.  It’s a stupid thing to say,” Rachel says, with a sigh.  “And I do.  I have Puck, who isn’t _…_. well, anything like Brittany, but I might call him anyway.  He’ll have some choice comments about Quinn that, in a very immature and irrational way, will probably cheer me up regardless.”

Santana chuckles after a second.  “Not the first time you’ve done this, then?”

“There are words I’d _never_ say about her that are sometimes nonetheless nice to hear,” Rachel says, sounding a little embarrassed.

Santana feels her lips ease into a smile, and then moves forward on her knees, until she can wrap her arms around Rachel from behind.  “You don’t have to be the bigger person with her anymore, I mean, fuck it.  She sort of threw any possibility of that out the window yesterday.  And I have some words of my own that I’d like to use, so--”

Rachel squeezes the arms wrapped around her and tips her head back, and then sighs.  “Please tell me that you do _get_ that I’m always going to have to be the bigger person around Quinn, right?  Because it’s going to be painful, for the rest of my life, and it would be great if you could just stand by with some alcohol to get me through it.”

The laughter’s unexpected and spontaneous, but Rachel’s rarely this on point about Quinn without being bitter about it, and she kisses the back of her jaw without thinking, and then says, “I love when you’re a secret jackass.  S’funny.  You should consider stand-up if that whole famous Broadway star thing doesn’t work out for you.”

It’s funny, because she hadn’t realized that Rachel wasn’t relaxed until Rachel just sort of melts into her and says, “If you must know, it’s actually my third backup career choice; it has been ever since I realized that Finn Hudson and I worked better as a comedic double act than a couple, and--”

“Comedic double act, my ass,” Santana says, laughing into her ear and then turning her around for a kiss.

This works even better, in terms of a distraction, and by the time she’s showered and texting Britt to see if they can meet up somewhere, she almost feels human again.

...

Britt and Mike are doing some sort of yoga exercise together at Britt’s place when she gets there, and she sort of watches them move; it’s weird, but this makes _sense_ , somehow, just on a purely visual level.

There’s always been parts of Brittany that communicate better with her body than her mind--and yeah, maybe she does flush a little at _what parts_ those are, usually, but whatever--and when she’s with Mike, it’s like she’s with someone who actually speaks the same language.

Plus, Chang is _not_ jealous, which she’s starting to learn is pretty much a prerequisite to being in Brittany’s life in any sort of non-friendly capacity.

Mike catches her eye and smiles and says, “Hey--you two okay?”

Fuck, he’s so nice it makes her want to throw up sometimes.  “Yeah, as far as life-ruiners go.”

“Was Quinn a jerk?” Brittany asks, sliding into an easy splits and arching her back in a way that like, people really shouldn’t be able to. “Because, I mean, I _know_ Quinn, and there’s like at least a sixty percent chance that she’s going to be a jerk when things are about Rachel.”

Santana sits down on the floor across from them and fingers her boot laces, and then sighs.  “Yeah, she was a real bitch.  I threw her out, and I don’t know how we’re going to get past this.”

Brittany sighs and then gets onto her knees, shuffling forwards and pulling Santana into a hug.  “Everything’s always so complicated.  I don’t know why all of you can’t just like, love the parts that are good and ignore the parts that are bad.  Like, Rachel’s really supportive and sweet sometimes, which makes up for when she’s super annoying.  And Quinn’s really smart and one of those people you want having your back in a fight, which is why I can always forget that she’s like... really judgey, and kind of mean.  And you’re--well, you’re you.”

Santana laughs unwillingly.  “What does _that_ mean?”

“You have like this super big heart,” Brittany says, with a sigh.  “Just, you know, you have a _bigger_ mouth.  That’s what always gets you in trouble.”

Mike laughs in the background.  “Must be nice, knowing you can call Santana out on her crap without getting your ass kicked.”

“Whatever, Chang; I haven’t _actually_ hit someone in years now.  I tend to take my revenge in words or video games these days,” she says, raising an eyebrow at him over Britt’s shoulder.

Brittany squeezes her in close one more time, and then gives her a really soft and very platonic kiss.  “If you want me to call Quinn and yell at her, I will, but I need to eat something really spicy first to get fired up, okay?”

“I’m cool, thanks,” Santana says, dropping her head to Britt’s shoulder--and yeah, even that’s starting to feel like it ought to again.

...

Three days later, she’s boarding a flight to Columbus (which stings) with Rachel (which doesn’t).  

Rachel is basically on her lap from the moment they start taxiing onwards, and she sort of laughs at her and loves it at the same time, which Rachel accepts with a sigh and a frown, before finally clambering back into her own seat when they’re actually up in the air.

They both have homework to do, and she stares blindly at a piece on feminism in legal cultures while thinking about the phone call she had with her mother, who sounded equal parts disappointed in all of them, except Rachel, somehow.

It seemed fair.  Quinn has this ridiculous capacity to drag them all back into the roles they played in high school, and Rachel’s the only one of them who plain up refuses to play that game, which is also what drives Quinn craziest.

Still: there’s a big difference between getting all of that, and having your mother berate you for having done “something so unthoughtful” to that lovely guy Sam Evans.

She fucking knows, is the thing.  Knows it’s terrible.  Knows what he feels like--she had a dream last night in which Rachel went back to _Finn_ and then Brittany said that this was always goign to happen to her no matter what, and it woke her up in a cold sweat with a clear need to throw up.  

Not that she did; she just looked at Rachel for a while, sound asleep with her mouth wide open--and yeah, the way she’s feeling is gross.  Two years ago, she would’ve taken a sharpie to her face or stuffed a wet sock in her mouth or something.  Now, all she wants to do is lean in closer and wake her up just to see her eyes, or whatever.

So she gets it, how Sam feels because of what they’re doing, and let her mother rant about it accordingly.  But then--it’s not like this is ideal for her, either; it’s not that she doesn’t love the Berrymen, or Rachel’s house, or whatever--but there’s family and _family_.

She has one of her _own_ , or she did, and now she’s just stealing Rachel’s all over again.

Rachel nudges her in the side and says, “I can _hear_ you think.  Are you okay?”

She deflects, because she can, by making a face and saying, “You never really clarified that whole shotgun situation...”

Rachel laughs and says, “Please.  My dads _love_ you.  You think they semi-adopt every person who stops by my house for dinner?”

She could say something unintentionally snide here about how there weren’t really all that many other people coming by, ever, but _…_ the reality of it is that Rachel’s family has grown alongside hers, so there’s no point in going in there.

“I’m convinced they like Puck better than me,” she finally just says, trying not to sound like she’s sulking.

“Are you _serious_?”  Rachel laughs again.  “ _Please_ explain why you think that my fathers would prefer for me to be shacking up with a college drop-out who’s currently gigging in Los Angeles and who happens to be a father to a three year old than with...”

“A girl?  Who isn’t Jewish, and not going to convert, by the way--just saying that now.  I don’t even believe in _my_ God, really, so I’m not going to start pretending I believe in yours.”

“Dad’s Christian, you know that,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes.  “And for what it’s worth, we’re not the _Fabrays_.  There’s more important things than what your faith is.”

“Okay, like.... the fact that I was kind of an asshole to you for forever?  And that I slept around a lot and... I mean, geez.  If I had a kid and they brought me home one day, I’d fucking ground them for life,” Santana says, before sighing and closing their eyes.  “Your dads just love me because I was this really sad closeted train wreck when you took me in as a stray, but I mean, that’s not the same thing as them approving.”

Rachel says nothing for a moment, and then tips her head onto Santana’s shoulder.  “It means a lot to me that you’re worried about this, even if it’s completely misguided and unnecessary.”

“Well, whatever.  I just want...”

“Their blessing?” Rachel asks, sounding like she’s smiling.

“To not get killed for nailing you through the mattress,” Santana amends, just because she’s so _sick_ of having serious conversations--who cares that she brought this one on herself?

A lady in the row behind them gasps, and Rachel shoots up and meerkats around, saying, “I’m _so_ sorry.  She forgot to take her medication.”

The glare she gets when Rachel turns around just makes her have to work really, really hard to not say anything else vulgar; she can’t help laughing though, and even though Rachel humphs and shifts back towards the window, her hand keeps running up and down Santana’s arm.

It’s amazing that, now that they’re _doing it_ , she basically just can’t get in trouble with Rachel for anything anymore.  That would’ve been a pretty amazing trick to pull out of the hat back in high school, whenever Rachel was on the verge of going on another Glee-related rampage.

“Whatever you’re thinking about, _stop_ it, because it’s showing on your face and making me... inappropriate,” Rachel hisses at her, and when Santana looks over, she’s blushing so cutely that Santana can’t resist.

Just leans over, and kisses her for a few moments.

“You; in one of those high school outfits, bent over Barry’s piano for me.”

“His name is _Brad_ \--”

“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you’re thinking about right now,” Santana teases.

Rachel rolls her eyes.  “I might _buy_ my dads a shotgun at this rate.”

“Please, as if that doesn’t go against your moral code in like seventeen different ways.”

“Worth it, in this case,” Rachel mutters, and Santana spends the rest of the flight just watching her squirm.

It’s pretty awesome.

...

It’s not really clear to her anymore _what_ she was worried about, by the time they get back to Lima; Berry White picked them up and talked to her exactly like he always used to, by asking questions about classes and whether she’s happy and whatever else comes up.

They talk about the new season of _True Blood_ for about half an hour, and she’s practically forgotten that anything’s changed when they pull up to the house--except, then Rachel hops out of the back and Berry White turns to her with a serious look.

“So.”

She tries not to flinch, which works, and then swallows nervously anyway.  “Um.”

“I remember asking you fairly explicitly to take care of her, when you got to New York,” he says, sternly, and Santana flashes back to--jeez, _everything_ in her life is about Kurt’s pool party.  She should buy Hummel some sort of designer cravat as thanks, or something.

“I know.  And I’ve never--you know, let her get drunk by herself, or anything.   _…_ not that we get drunk, _ever_ ,” she says, wondering when exactly _parents_ started making her _stammer_.  Jesus Christ.

Berry White stares at her for another moment, and then cracks a small smile.  “Santana, you think I care about whether or not you two _drink_ these days?”

“Um,” she says, stupidly.

“You almost broke her heart, at the start of the summer.  I’ve never seen her like that, and I’ve seen Finn Hudson crush her in a variety of ways over the years, so--let me just put this to you squarely,” he says, before pausing and pushing his glasses up his nose.  “Are you sure about what you’re doing with her?”

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and then looks away from him.

“You know how Quinn Fabray is my best friend, and like--she lived with me and everything?” she finally says, and that’s painful; it’s not saying nearly enough, and it’s saying way too much right now anyway.

Berry White nods, and she looks out the window, to where Rachel’s hugging Black Berry and gesturing about something--possibly to the do with the flight, the way her arms are sticking out, but there’s no way to tell.

“She doesn’t approve,” Santana says, after a moment, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.  “She thinks... that I just want someone’s attention, and that Rachel’s just interested in me because _…_ well, she has some cracked out ideas that I won’t bore you with, but... yeah.  She thinks I just want someone’s attention, because _…_ it’s been a while, you know?  Since anyone loved me like that.”

Berry White looks like he wants to start talking, with an almost guilty look on her face, and Santana shakes her head and cuts him off at the quick.

“You know what I told her?  When she started saying shit like that?”

“Santana--”

“No, I’m serious, because--I don’t know how else to convince you.  I have a terrible track record with relationships, in that this is pretty much my first one, and I’m like.... well, confessing all the things I’ve done would take the better part of two weeks at this point, and I’m just--I don’t know if I’m good at this.  I just know that I’m _trying,_ okay?” she says, before biting her lip.  “So I told Quinn that I love Rach, and that she could come back into my life when she could accept that.”

She doesn’t even have time to react before Berry White is tugging her over the console and pulling her into a hug, pressing a kiss to her head.

And, well, _shit_.

She knew that Black Ber-- _Leroy_ liked her, but this is something else entirely.

“It’s a shame you’re not Jewish,” he finally says, before letting her go.  “Because if you were, you’d be perfect to me.”

“I don’t need to be perfect to _you_ ,” Santana says, laughing a little when he just winks at her.

“Too right.  Now, get out there; Leroy is itching to knuckle your skull for being such a … bad word at the start of the summer.  His words, not mine.”

She laughs again, and then hesitantly heads towards the house, where Leroy is leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.

Rachel loops their arms together, and then says, “Dad--I think you remember my girlfriend, Santana.”

She flushes unwillingly and then looks at Leroy, who still isn’t moving at all; and finally just sticks out her right hand and says, “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

He lasts another few seconds and then cracks up laughing so hard that she almost jumps back and then says, “Hell, I was going to torture you for ages, but I can’t compete with _that_.  Sir, my ass.  Get over here, Lopez.”

And yeah, he knuckles her head, and tells her again that she better not screw things up or he’ll hunt her down, but whatever.  

He’s the kind of parent that she wishes she could be, one day, she thinks, later, when they’re unpacking, and she’s sheepishly carrying shit over to the guest bedroom until Berry White catches her and rolls his eyes at her, sending her back to Rachel’s room.

That brings to mind something else _entirely_.

“Rach?” she asks, pausing in the doorway with her stack of t-shirts.

“Hm?  We have some time before dinner;  I thought we could maybe head out to the park behind the school, you know, for old time’s sake... but--”

“Do you want kids?” she asks, while she still has the nerve.

Rachel shuts up so abruptly that it’s almost funny, and then levels her with a cautious, unreadable look.  “... do you?”

She thinks about it for a moment, and then remembers the nauseating twist in her stomach at the idea of screwing _anything_ up as badly as her parents did raising her--and just shakes her head.  “Really, really not.  But I can’t remember what your twenty five step plan says about--”

“My twenty five step plan is _moronic_ ,” Rachel says, easily, and then purses her lips.  “I’m... going to be honest, about how selfish I am, and say that pregnancy completely intervenes with every single one of my ambitions and life plans; and that I also have no desire to see _you_ pregnant.... and that generally speaking, I think adoption is a noble thing for people who aren’t nearly as self-involved as you and I are.”

“So.... no?”

Rachel gives her a self-deprecating little look and says, “Honestly, let’s see if we can keep a _plant_ alive for two months first, and then we can revisit this years down the line, when biological clocks start being an issue.”

Santana watches as Rachel shoves a few more things in her now-empty dresser, and then wonders when, exactly, she stopped being worried that Rachel would have _ridiculous_ reactions to these kinds of conversations.

She honestly can’t remember; but just being aware of it is enough reason to trap her against the wall next to her closet and kiss her soundly.

“My dads---”

“Love me.”

“Possibly not so much if they can _hear_ us, Santana.”

“Whatever,” she says, and kisses Rachel again, before smiling against her cheek.  “Figure out some way to be quiet, then.”

...

Dinner is weird.

It’s weird because she called her mom, beforehand, and spoke to her for a while about a bunch of meaningless stuff--her classes, her mom’s new colleagues, what she’s doing next year and how Rachel is--until her mom had pretty much gotten rid of her because ‘they’ were going to be there soon.

It hurt, a little, to realize that somehow Sam had forgiven Quinn already.  Or well, whatever.  It’s not like she actually has any idea what’s going on there.  Maybe he just has nowhere else to go.

She remembers what that’s like, especially when Leroy starts carving the tofurkey and Berry White just looks between his kid and her for long quiet moments.

Then, he smiles, and says, “So what did you both think about the last season of Top Chef?”

It breaks the tension completely, and Santana doesn’t even jolt when halfway through dinner, Rachel squeezes her thigh and then reaches for her hand.

Really, it’s only when they go through the motions of their tradition that she tenses up again.

Rachel says she’s thankful to New York University for seeing a good thing when it applied, in a self-mocking tone of voice that makes Santana want to shift in closer and just--slap her, or something.  Except she’s joking about it now, her first year in New York, and maybe that’s the best sign to hang on to.

Leroy says that he’s thankful for endless amounts of patience and beginning hearing loss, which help him deal with his husband and his daughter respectively--before noting a little wryly that the house has actually been far too quiet lately, and that they should visit more often than they do.

It’s the _they_ that sticks the lump in her throat.  She’s been part of package deals before--most of her life, really--but this one is different somehow, and she knows it.

Berry White thanks Leroy for cooking, Rachel for cleaning, and Santana herself for teaching him how to master eyerolling over the next two days, but with such a fond look at his husband that it’s like--whatever.  Maybe it doesn’t so much matter what she says.

They all look at her expectantly, and she takes a deep breath and says, “I’m thankful that...”

And nothing else comes.

There’s both too much, and too little to say here.  She’s thankful for this family; she’s not thankful for her other one, or maybe she is, but just not for Quinn.  She doesn’t know what she’d do without Brittany back in her life, but the cost of that working out turned out a little steep anyway.  She misses Sam, and the way he’d let her win most video games they played together out of some misguided sense of honor, like she couldn’t kick his ass anyway.  And when she thinks about that, she even misses Mike Chang a little, for being too afraid of her to protest when she demands he actually play at the top of his game.

She’s thankful for all of those things.  She’s just not sure she has them all, still, and it’s not until Rachel says her name and a soft, “Are you okay?” that she realizes she trailed off mid-sentence.

“I’m just thankful.  I think,” she finally says, and then mashes her lips together to stop anything else from coming out.

Nobody says anything for a moment, but Rachel’s hand tightens on her leg, and after a few more seconds she exhales.

“That’s real deep.  It’s good to know Barnard has earned its reputation,” Leroy finally says, before nodding to the other end of the table.  “Pass the sweet potato?”

She kind of loves him, and then makes good on that urge--pushes her chair closer to Rachel’s, almost trapping her sleeve between their chairs in the process, and then settling in.

She doesn’t let herself think about Quinn for the rest of the night, and it almost works, but only because Rachel suggests a game of Scattergories after dinner and Berry White then busts out Beatles: Rock Band when they finally think they can move again.

...

The first really serious conversation they have, as a couple, takes place on the McKinley bleachers.

It’s a holiday, so there is literally nobody around, and Rachel has wrapped them both in scarves that her grandma apparently knit for the entire family.

“How’d she even know to make a fourth?  Do you like--talk to your _grandma_ about me?” Santana asks, when Rachel’s blowing on her hands and rubbing them together.

“She’s where I get my psychic ability from,” Rachel says, plainly.

Santana would roll her eyes, but Rachel reaches for both of her hands and tucks them into her coat and--it’s kind of nice.  This kind of flashback to what she could’ve had, in high school, if she’d had--well, better foresight, or maybe less concern about what the hell everyone would think.

“I’m auditioning for the spring musical when we get back,” Rachel says, tilting her head onto Santana’s shoulder and almost knocking off her little wool cap in the process.  It stays put, precariously so, though, and so Santana just says, “Yeah?”

It’s a big deal.  Rachel hasn’t auditioned for a damn thing all year, and it’s one of those things where Santana just doesn’t know enough about being a girlfriend to decide if it’s a time for her to _push_ or to _let be_.  Her only frame of reference is what Sam did, back with Juilliard, and so she hasn’t said anything, but--it’s good.  It’s good that they’re talking, and that Rachel’s going for stuff again.

“Yeah.  And the spring play,” she then adds.

It starts to rain a little; a light shower, and Santana tugs the hood of her jacket over her head, before pulling Rachel in even closer.

“That’s a lot of auditioning,” she finally says, when Rachel starts to tense up and isn’t saying anything else.

“There’s … a fairly good chance that I’ll get leads in either.  Meaning I’ll have to choose, and--”

“Well, duh, the musical, obviously,” Santana says.

“No, what I mean is--I’m going to have two extra-curricular activities going on either way.  Both in large roles.  If... well, if everything goes...”

“Rach--Broadway might’ve been too big a leap to make at once, okay, but if you don’t think that you’re eighteen times the performer than those pretentious dicks you go to school with, you’re actually crazy and I’m breaking up with you,” Santana says, mildly.

Rachel chuckles after a second.  “Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“You’re getting both roles,” Santana says, already feeling pretty good because this is one serious conversation that she’s managed to sail through without hang-ups.

“And... you’re okay with that?”

… maybe not, then.  “Um.  … am I supposed to not be okay with that?”

Rachel shifts away from her and sits up, fixing her hat and staring out towards the goal posts with a conflicted expression.  “How much spare time do you think I’ll have when I have a full load of classes, a part-time job and both a play and a musical to rehearse for and perform in?”

“About ten minutes, every third Tuesday,” Santana says, after a moment.

Rachel shoots her an unimpressed look, and she sighs.

“I get where you’re taking this, and it’s like--what do you want me to say, Rach?  This is _such_ a trap.  If I tell you it will piss me off, I’m standing in the way of your dreams or whatever; if I tell you that I’ll be fine, I probably don’t care enough or something.”

“I just need you to know, and maybe prepare for it a little, because I want this to work but I also need something that’s just for _me_ ,” Rachel says.  Her face falls when she adds, “And I don’t want that to happen at the expense of this relationship, but--”

“Hey,” Santana finally just says, and reaches for her cheek; slightly wet, and cold, and a lovely shade of almost red.  “Don’t give me that shit.  I’m not like your boyfriends, okay.  I’m not threatened by New York, or how bad you want it.  New York is what makes you _you_.  You’re going to be a star some day.  We’ll deal with it when we get there.  I know this isn’t about me.  Like, come on.  Are you planning on giving me shit about the hours I’ll start running when I hit up law school?”

Rachel’s head shifts to look at her so quickly that her hand falls away.  “Santana, that’s like _three years_ from now.”

“Yeah, so?” she asks.

"So... the last time I asked you about the future, you just said that--"

She bites her lip and then winces. "Yeah, I know. I just wasn't expecting you to ask. I guess I should've but, c'mon, Rachel. Do you really think that I _don’t_ think that far ahead sometimes?”

Rachel says nothing, which obviously means _no_.

“I don’t know how normal people do this, okay, and that's part of why I didn't want to say anything. But I've always had an exit strategy, even if it wasn't a very good one." She takes a deep breath and sighs. "Before you, I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with a girl who’s been my best friend since I was five.  I had everything mapped out.  We were going to go to California together, and she was going to dance and I was going to  act or model or something--”

“Seriously?” Rachel asks, sounding really disapproving, and Santana sort of laughs at herself over it.

“Well, I was _twelve_ when I came up with the plan, but still.  Yeah, I thought ahead.  Because it was just kind of like... everything we were doing now was so obvious, that there wasn’t anything to think about.  I loved B.  She loved me.  We were always together.  So there was only looking forward, you know?”

Rachel nods after a moment.  “And then came Quinn.”

“Yep.  And Quinn and I were basically going to be power lesbians, you know.  She was going to be some sort of marketing exec and I was going to be a kick-ass corporate lawyer, and we’d both live in New York and sleep around a lot and be bigger than Lima; bigger than _anyone_.”

“Bigger than me?” Rachel asks, with a wry smile.

“We needed _something_ to aim for.  You were all we had, in terms of what an exit plan looked like.  It wasn’t personal.”  She doesn’t bother adding the ‘for me’, because it’s so damn implied that it’s actually painful.

It’s starting to rain a little bit harder, and Santana sighs and pulls on Rachel’s hand when Rachel goes back to staring off into the distance.

“C’mon.  Let’s make a run for it.”

She has to actually help Rachel _off_ the bleachers, which is actually kind of cute, and then when they’re shaking off outside of her dads’ Volvo in the parking lot, Rachel suddenly grabs her wrist and looks at her very seriously.

“So... when I asked where you saw yourself five years from now--”

“Rach, come on,” Santana says, rolling her eyes a little.

“No, I’m serious--and not because I _need_ the affirmation, but it would be nice to not be the only crazy person in this very, very young relationship who is starting to make some adjustments to the big picture in order to--”

“Yes, okay?  Yes.  We’re... living in the city.  We have a cat with a stupid name.  I’m in law school, you’re--doing whatever you want to do.  And we fuck three times a day and we’re _happy_.  That’s what--”

Rachel smothers her with a kiss, the rain now actually streaming down around them--and even thought it’s a really hard and quick press against her, it resonates exceptionally hard.

“I _don’t_ do shit halfway,” she says, again, taking a deep breath.  “When I’m in, I’m in so _far_ and so hard that it scares the crap out of me, okay?   You knew me, with Britt.  And now it’s like--someone says something mean about you, and I want to go and beat them to within an inch of their life--and--”

Rachel somehow laughs and bursts into tears at the same time.  “Why are you _apologizing_ to me about this?”

“I don’t know!” Santana exclaims, pushing her hair out of her face.  “Because you’re looking at me like--”

“I love you,” Rachel says, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah.  Like that,” Santana sort of mumbles, stupidly, before taking a deep breath.  “And in case it wasn’t like, clear yet, what with my whole murder rap promise and whatever--I love you too, okay?”

...

She wakes up the next morning basically choking on phlegm.

The smile on Rachel’s face, still sound asleep, is … well, no, it’s not really worth it, but it’s pretty damn beautiful anyway.

...

It’s funny how much of their lives are the same routine over and over again, but it never gets tired.

Every Tuesday and Friday they do stuff with Brittany and Mike, just as a group; it doesn’t ever quite feel like a double date, which is nice, because the only other time she remembers going on those was with Brittany and mostly about pretending they weren’t more into each other than whatever football players they’d been with.

This is just about eating vegan pizza somewhere and playing air hockey at an arcade with Mike as her partner, because seriously--she likes winning more than she likes being on a team with either of her girls, and he’s so quick on his feet that they’re basically unbeatable.

They teach Rachel how to play pool--including a fantastic moment where Brittany actually asked the bartender at the pool hall if he had a small box or something for her ‘dwarf roommate’ to stand on--and they teach Brittany how to bake brownies, even though the only recipe between the four of them is Puck’s and it requires a special ingredient that none of them have the hook-up for.

It’s moments like that where she still somewhat expects Rachel to go off her nuts and start ranting about gateway drugs, but Rachel just sort of shrugs and says, “I’m paranoid enough without taking anything that might make me hallucinate” and the conversation moves on to their dream vacation destinations.  (Brittany: “the moon”; Mike: “Tokyo”; Rachel: “Venice”, which surprises Santana because she was sure it would be Paris, and... her own, which she’s never really given any thought to.)

Come the middle of December, she watches a few early morning cartoons with Mike and steals some of his cereal before finally asking, “Are you actually seeing her yet?”

When Mike shakes his head and says, “We’re good the way we are, for now”, it hits her that he’s no longer really all that scared of her, and that he’s going to be really good for Brittany at some point.

She hands his cereal back to him and then says, “What are we doing about housing next year?” because--well, yeah.

It’s not really clear what’s going to happen.  Plan A is off the table, as far as she can see, but then there’s Plan B, which is moving in with Rach and sending Mike over to Britt, but--given how he feels, and given that they’ve still not actually _done_ anything, that might get to be too much.

Not to mention that--well, she might be thinking off into the distance about cats and apartments or whatever, but is she really ready to live with Rachel _now_?

It’s a really stupid thing to think, after a year of already living with her and apparently burying a lot of feelings that--well, whatever.  She’s _past_ that now, and there’s now just a lot of appeal in Rachel trying to get things off the top shelf in those stupid ass booty shorts she exercises in.

“Don’t know,” Mike says, easily enough.

“I mean--what if I want Rachel to move back in here?”

“I’d find somewhere else to live.  It’s a big city, Santana.”

She snakes her hand back into the Lucky Charms and steals a few more.  “I’d kind of miss your ass, you know.”

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding like he both doesn’t believe her and yet really likes the compliment she just gave him.

“Yeah.  I mean, Rachel doesn’t have XBox Live and she thinks _muesli_ is the same thing as cereal,” Santana says, letting her face show every extent of disgust she feels at the memory of that conversation.

Mike laughs after a moment, and then looks at her seriously.  “So what’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Being with someone you know you could actually be with for … I don’t know.  A long time?  Forever?”

Her hand freezes on its way to her mouth, and a few Lucky Charms fall to her lap.  “Um.”

“You don’t have to answer, I just wonder.  You know.  Because Tina and I--we had a lot of good times, but our families just always seemed to want us to go further than we did.  The break-up was mostly mutual.  It was just a pain because we lived together, but... I don’t know.”  Mike shrugs and turns back to the television.  “I think that when I’m with that person, it’ll be like dancing; sometimes it’ll take me a while to figure out how to make something work, but I’ll feel good trying, and I’ll feel awesome when I actually get it done, you know?”

Santana closes the cereal box and props it back on the coffee table.  “Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“If you don’t fucking ask her out soon, I am going to cut holes in every single one of your _Gundam Wing_ t-shirts and I don’t know, maybe I’ll stop asking Rachel to be quiet when we’re here.”

He stares at her for a moment and then just shakes his head.  “I don’t know if it’s better to be on your good side or your bad side sometimes.”

She laughs and elbows him.  “Seriously.  Just ask her out.  Not like she won’t say yes.”

“Yeah?” he asked, sounding uncertain.  “Because--we’re friends and all, but--”

“Chang, where are your balls?”

“Crushed beneath the soles of your feet?”

She laughs again, and realizes that maybe it won’t actually be horrific if they do end up double dating.

...

The only solution to Christmas is to not celebrate it anywhere.  

Rachel’s Jewish anyway, and they’re both completely exhausted from the end of term and another insane exam period, and they don’t want to choose; Santana doesn’t want to pick between her mother and Rachel’s family, and Rachel doesn’t want to choose between Santana or her dads, so in the end, they just stay in New York.

They don’t bother with a tree or anything, and on Christmas Eve, they eat the same Chinese they eat every other Friday when they’re not doing things out of the house, and they watch the third season of Dexter in a marathon the day afterwards and exchange some small gifts on the 28th just because that feels like as good a day as any.

“Live with me, next year,” Santana asks, on the thirtieth, and Rachel just cranes her head back from where she’s sprawled out on the floor, until they’re peering at each other, the height of the sofa between their faces.

“You’re sure?”

“No,” Santana admits, but then can’t help but grin anyway.  “But I don’t really care.”

“What... what about Quinn?” is Rachel’s next question, and it throws her out of their little Christmas bubble so completely that she rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling.

“What _about_ she-who-shall-not-be-named?”

“Okay, I know she wasn’t exactly wonderful, but she’s not _Voldemort_ ,” Rachel says, from somewhere below, sounding like she’s underwater.  “And all I meant is; what is she doing?  Is she still coming to New York or--”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Your mother?  I mean.. have you asked?”

The answer is no, because it’s too painful.

“Whatever.  Okay?  I was Quinn’s housing agency for two years anyway; I’ve done my time on that front.  I don’t owe her anything.”  God, and she hates how petulant and bitchy she sounds about all of this, even with the passing of time.  It’s not like she’s been able to stop thinking about it; things with Rachel are rock solid, which means there _isn’t_ anything else to think about.

“Okay,” Rachel says, after a moment, but Santana knows what she sounds like when she’s planning something, and is about to suspiciously ask after that when Rachel sits up next to the couch and--

“Wait.   _When_ did you get naked?”

“I’m an excellent multi-tasker,” Rachel says, before quirking an eyebrow in a way that--no.  It’s not at all like that, because Rachel just makes it look goofy.  “Are you coming down here, or--”

“I’ll come wherever, s’long as I’m coming,” Santana says, and then rolls off the couch, on top of her squealing and laughing girlfriend, until Quinn Fabray is pushed back to the recesses of her mind, where she’s been living for a month now.

...

It’s late afternoon on January 1st when she decides to take the plunge, and calls Sam.

He doesn’t answer, but then sends a text message twenty minutes later that just reads _what do you want_

 _A chance_ she sends back.

She doesn’t get a response for 24 hours, and then all it says is _ask me again next month_.

It’s more than she’s gotten from Quinn, who was supposed to be her best friend in this situation; not just the guy she sort of got to know after she dated him, and maybe sort of loved like fucking crazy anyway, if the way her heart hurt every time she thought of him was any indication.

“Hey--you okay?” Britt asks, pressing a kiss to her head.  “You look like Rachel just told you she’s pregnant or something.”

She chuckles and says, “Rachel’s not pregnant.  Like, what?  How would that even work?”

“Um--the stork’s not into discrimination,” Brittany says, in a really ‘duh’ tone of voice, before laughing at the look of disbelief on Santana’s face.  “I’m kidding.  You just had a funny look on your face.”

“I miss Sam,” she says plainly, after a moment.

“Me too.  He’s a really good kisser,” Brittany agrees, with a sigh.

“And a good friend,” Santana mumbles, and lets Brittany wrap her up into a hug.

Rachel and Mike get back with paper bags full of fatty, greasy things that Rachel normally wouldn’t be caught dead eating, but apparently a massive hangover cures Rachel of most of her _Rachel_ qualities and turns her into a normal person.

She’s basically fallen asleep, with Britt still curled up at her side and Rachel’s head resting against her knee on the floor, when Mike says, “Hey, Britt?”

“Hm?” Brittany says, sitting up a little.  “Are you going to be sick?  Because--don’t puke on Rachel.  That’ll just make Santana punch you _and_ vomit.  Remember when we did Ke$ha?  That was so gross.”

Rachel makes a hilarious disgust noise and Santana laughs softly, but then waits it out, because--

“I’m not going to be sick, but I do have this crazy idea,” Mike says.  He’s just a voice, really; all Santana can see is that he’s wearing one striped sock and one sport sock, and she knows she’s really post-trashed when that’s a little funny to her.

“Oh--does it involve penguins, because--”

“No, but--hear me out,” Mike says, before scrambling to his elbows and glancing over to the couch with a very bleary, tired expression on his face.  “So--today’s the first, right?”

“I think so,” Brittany says, squinting at him a little.  “You know I suck with calendars, though.”

“No, it is,” Mike says, and scratches at his cheek.  “So--I’m with you, right now, on the first day of the year.”

“Yep,” Britt agrees, before sinking further into Santana’s side again and pulling on her waist like she’s a goddamned pillow or something; when she glances over at Rachel, Rachel looks so close to laughing that she has to stick a finger to her mouth, because she’s starting to get the feeling that she knows where this is going.

“Okay.  So what I’m thinking is that... I also want to be with you on the last day of the year.”

Brittany looks amused.  “If someone can remind me, I’m like--pretty sure I don’t have plans for the 31st of December next year yet, so … okay.”

“And every day inbetween,” Mike says, and then smiles a little.  “So--I can say that I literally saw you every day this year.”

“But--what about if I like... have to leave town,” Brittany says, with a small headtilt.  “Like, if I have to go to Lima or whatever.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Oh, so you’re going to stalk me?”

Rachel clamps down on a snort of laughter so abruptly that it sets Santana off, but she manages to laugh silently for the most part, not daring to look at Brittany at all.

“Well,” Mike says, before letting out a small noise of frustration.  “That’d be one way to … be with you every day, but... I’m kind of hoping you’ll want me around.”

“Of course I want you around.  I like you,” Brittany says, sounding _very_ confused now.  “I mean, you’re a great dancer, and you’re funny and nice.  I mean, I see you almost every day anyway, and--”

“B,” Santana finally says, when the faint hope on Mike’s face starts to slip.  “I think what he’s trying to say is that he’d like to _see_ you.”

“Oh, like... _naked_?” Brittany asks.

Rachel starts laughing and apologizing at the same time and then ends up leaving the room, pausing in the doorway to make a face at Santana that’s like _she doesn’t need you to stick around for this, okay_.

Mike opens and closes his mouth three times as Santana passes by him, and then finally just says, “Well, I mean, eventually?  If that’s okay with you?”

Rachel covers her face with both hands and collapses onto Santana’s bed, and Santana almost bites _through_ her lip not to start laughing again--but then Rachel just rolls over and whispers, “And this is why God invented Powerpoint, by the way.”

She loses it completely, especially when Rachel glares at her and says, “I'm completely serious, Santana; a clear visual representation, such as a heart, and a bullet list of reasons would’ve--”

“Oh, my God, I’m so glad we just hooked up randomly and you didn’t have a chance to go all Single White Nerd on me.  I would’ve rolled my eyes at you so hard I would’ve gone blind, or something,” Santana says, before pulling her in close and planting a sloppy wet kiss on her cheek.

“Ugh,” Rachel says, wiping her cheek and then raising a finger.  “Hang on... I think...”

A moment later, Mike’s loud, “ _Yes_!” echoes through the apartment, and Rachel gives her a very pleased smile.

“Let me guess; your psychic abilities let you know?” Santana asks, dryly.

“You’ll believe me, one day,” Rachel says, with the cutest little grin that Santana’s ever seen on her face.  

She just has to kiss it off, even though she feels like shit, because a week from now, Rachel’s rehearsals are going to start and she’s going to start working part-time on a Jewish history project, and... these little things, the way Rachel’s eyes soften when she’s _really_ looking, and the way Rachel’s hair feels when it curtains down over their faces...

They’re the things that they’ll need to remember, to keep it together when real life squarely hits them in the ass.

She plans to make every single one of them count, from now on.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! Phew. The end of the main storyline. Following from this, we have a Leroy interlude and an epilogue set when the girls are 25. Thank you all so much for your patience, support, and wonderful feedback.

She hasn’t spoken to her best friend in almost three months.

She doesn’t even know if ‘best friend’ still applies.

She hasn’t seen her girlfriend in three days, and last time she spoke to her it was for a rushed ten minute conversation with both of them running to different parts of town, the signal constantly cutting out between buildings and then finally just crapping out altogether on the Subway.

Her entire life has become a series of diaries that she’s helping textually analyze, sporadic text messages, and watching as Mike and Brittany do what they can to keep them all from drifting and floundering completely.

Here’s another text message:

_I have an hour before rehearsal tonight--worked until 3am yesterday to get my homework out of the way.  Please?_

All Santana can do is shrug her messenger back higher up on her shoulder, and pull the shoes she’s just slipped off back on, because Rachel said, “please”, and it’s only been three weeks of their new schedules.

If they can’t manage them now, they just won’t manage at all.

...

There’s an unexpected comfort in _just being_.  She’s too tired for sex, not to mention that her unpaid part-time job isn’t exactly conducive towards thoughts along those lines anyway; not when all she’s reading is diaries of first generation Polish immigrants in the early 1950s, writing years after the fact about what it was like to be stamped and branded like cattle, unsure of when they would next eat, or sleep, or see daylight.

The idea of being that terrified of taking a shower--

She just presses into Rachel, and this is absurd, of course; they’re not at any particular risk of anything, but something about it sits with her wrongly anyway.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Rachel asks, pressing a kiss just behind her ear before she even responds.

“Want to go back in time and kick Hitler’s ass,” Santana mumbles, after a moment.  

Rachel, to her credit, doesn’t laugh; she just strokes Santana’s hair for a few moments before tugging her down on the bed and saying, “As far as life goals go: admirable, though not entirely realistic?”

Santana’s not entirely sure she can even put her thought process into words, but something about the way that she doesn’t _mind_ curling up on Rachel’s chest and being held by her sort of wrenches them out anyway.

“It’s not--I mean.  This job is just getting to me.  I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about my mortality, or even my second-class citizen status in this country, but... you know, if we’d met back then, you would’ve been killed for like fifteen different reasons, and I would’ve been killed for the remaining fifteen.”

Rachel makes a soft noise and then just presses a kiss to her forehead.  “I don’t know.  I like to think that the Nazi regime’s appreciation for the arts might have spared me to an extent; I could’ve sung, for them.  For my survival.”

Santana closes her eyes and smiles.  “Please.  Your principles would’ve had you ranting about justice after your opening number.”

Rachel’s soft chuckle lifts her head a little, and then they just settle around each other quietly for a little while.

“I’m really sorry,” she finally says, when she can.  “About the vile, ignorant things I used to say about you.  And I’m not just saying that because we’re together now; I just... am trying really hard to forget what I was like in high school, but I don’t think I can until I apologize.”

Rachel doesn’t say it’s okay, which is good, because it’s not.  All she says is, “Tell me about the project”, and Santana does; talking for almost the entire hour before she’s all out of things to share.

It doesn’t surprise her that Rachel’s eyes are wet when she looks up at her, but what does surprise her is the way Rachel says, “I think you’ve found your calling, you know.”

“What--lying on your bed whining about how hard it is to read about people’s incredibly sad and fucked up lives?” she says, rolling her eyes at herself a little.

“No.  Just... fighting for people who don’t necessarily want to or know how to fight for themselves,” Rachel says, her hand still aimlessly running through Santana’s hair.  “You should do something with that.  It’ll help you feel like the good person that I know you are, deep down.”

Santana inhales deeply and then just noses at Rachel’s neck for a moment.  “How’s the play?”

“Tedious; it’s incredibly hard to work with people whose primary talent is getting in my way, but then I suppose four years of Will Schuester prepared me for this moment as well as anything was going to.”

Santana laughs a little and then lifts up, on her elbows, until she can actually look at Rachel.  “What’s the dream for opening night?”

“Huge flowers.  The size of my body, and … maybe a stuffed toy of some kind with a heart on it, as you are my first and biggest fan... well, next to my dads, of course.  And... a front row seat, so that I can look directly at you when the curtains close and we bow.  I’d like to blow you a kiss--accurately, so that I don’t accidentally end up encouraging that stage hand who keeps sneaking glances at my legs.”

“Uh--I’m sorry, what now?” Santana says, sitting up a little more.  “Do I need to come and stake a claim?”

“ _Need_ is a relative term, but--I don’t know.  I’d enjoy it,” Rachel says, with a small smile.  “More the showing off my intensely brainy girlfriend, though.  You’re studying a _real_ degree.  That’s rare for those of us over at Tisch.  Nearly everyone else just double majors.”

“Have you given thought to that?” Santana asks, tilting her head when Rachel gets a faraway look in her eyes.

“I....hm.  Ask me again in a few months, when I can hear myself think again.  Maybe on our trip.”

The trip has become this beacon of light in an ocean of tides that are turning against them, and even at just the words Santana feels herself relax a little bit more.

“I think it’d be a good idea; you know, up your marketability.  But it’d have to be something you care about,” she finally says.  “Not _as_ much as acting and singing, but...”

“It’ll come to me,” Rachel says, and then leans down for a soft kiss that feels more like a hello than anything else.  “At the risk of sounding needy, can you maybe study here tonight?  I’ll be home by about 1am and we could.. have five hours together.  Your favorite kind, even.”

“The ones where you’re snoring?” Santana asks, laughing when Rachel rolls her eyes.

“I was going to say the ones where I’m _silent_ , but--”

“Whatever.  Yeah, I can stay.  And you’re welcome to wake me up when you get back,” she says, stretching her back a little and then flopping onto her stomach on the mattress again.  “I figure you’ll be wired from performing, and I’ll have slept enough to get it up for you--”

“Get _what_ up?” Rachel asks, with a laugh.  “One day, your vocabulary will line up with your intellect, and it’ll be like dating a stranger, I swear.”

“Please.  Like that wouldn’t turn you on like crazy,” Santana mumbles, already drifting off.

She gets the feeling that Rachel says something in response, but doesn’t find out until 2am, when her very naked girlfriend slips into bed next to her and presses a kiss to her neck that has her squirming.

“Like I said; everything you do turns me on, so--” Rachel says, the stars in her eyes clearly visible, and Santana doesn’t even have a chance to say something in response before Rachel’s pinning her to the mattress and sets about dismantling her completely.

...

On the first of February, she’s eating a bowl of muesli--and whatever, it’s apparently really good for her--at the breakfast bar when Brittany walks of out Mike’s room buck naked and just says, “Hey--which way do I turn the shower for hot?”

“Left,” Santana says, slowly craning her head another way.  “B?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re naked.”

“I know,” Brittany says.  “Uh, you’ve seen me naked before.”

“Yes, but... I probably shouldn’t be seeing you naked anymore now.  Rachel would... uh.”

“Rachel’s seen me naked,” Brittany says, casually, leaning in the door of the bathroom.

“... what?”

“Well, I mean, it doesn’t happen anymore because she’s explained the washing machine to me, but I basically ran out of clothing for a while there.  What can you do?” Brittany says, with a shrug.  “Left, right?”

Santana finally decides that the only prudent thing to do is nod, and... she’s almost laughing about it when her phone rings and scares the crap out of her.

Her breath catches when she sees who it is, and then she very gingerly puts her breakfast down and answers it.

“Hello?”

“You wanted a chance,” Sam says, sounding completely exhausted.  “So--I mean.  I’m giving you one.  But I’m not doing this over the phone, so you’re going to have to meet me somewhere.  And I’m not driving to New York for you, okay?”

“You want me to come to Philly,” Santana says, slowly.

“I don’t care where we meet.  I just don’t want to go to New York.”

“Okay.  Um.  Do you want me to bring--”

“No,” he says, abruptly, and then hangs up again.

The text that follows has his address, and she stares at the calendar on the fridge to try to figure out she can swing this at all, the way her semester is developing.

Of course, that’s the biggest load of shit she’s ever thought, and twenty minutes later she’s already out the door while texting Rachel that she’ll be out of town for a little while.

 _Quinn?_ Rachel texts back.

 _Your eternal optimism is self-deluding and endearing at once,_ she sends back.

 _Your big words are like, super hot_ is the final text she gets from Rachel, and it helps her laugh for at least a few seconds, before she heads down underground and fights her way over to Penn Station.

...

A good five hours later, she’s finally in front of Sam’s dormitory, and has to complete some sort of signing in process with a nerdy-looking guy who looks like he might start drooling.

“Sam Evans has the _hottest_ female friends,” he finally says, and Santana shoots him a look that would’ve made Jacob Ben-Israel wet himself.  It’s interesting to see it still works, this many years later, because the guy sort of shrivels in on himself and says, “No offense.”

Visitor pass in place, she makes her way up to the second floor and then realizes that Sam’s the RA for his entire hallway; other guys have drawn pictures of Yosemite Sam on the whiteboard on his door, and he himself has written down that there is only one rule, and this is “There is no try, there is only do.”  
It just about inspires her to the point where she knocks on his door, and then she instinctively takes a step back and shoves her hands in her pockets while he says, “Coming.”

He looks … better than she thought he would.  Less angry, for a start, and also like he’s been sleeping more than he’s been drinking, which is more than she was hoping for.  Not that she’s been hoping for much of anything with Sam anymore, but... he just gives her a placid look and says, “I didn’t think you’d--”

“This is important,” she says, cutting him off, and the casualness falls off him immediately.  His jaw clenches a little, but he steps to the side and opens up the door further, and she gingerly steps inside.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, which is a completely overstatement; there’s some shirts on the floor and a half-eaten sandwich on his desk, but other than that he just has stacks of comic books lining the wall and a TV with at least three consoles hooked up to it in the corner, not to mention the Alienware desktop that is glowing menacingly under his desk.  It’s--pretty much what she was expecting, except for the pictures on the memo board above his desk.

“Better times,” he says, when he catches her looking, still standing stupidly in the middle of his room.  

It’s one way to put it; they’re of high school, and she doesn’t even know where Sam got some of these--there are random pictures of Finn and Puck horsing about, and pictures of her and Quinn and Brittany in their Cheerios uniforms, laughing about something.  Pictures of Rachel and Kurt singing, legs dangling off stage, and--

“I uh, played Magic: the Gathering with someone on the yearbook staff,” Sam finally says, filling the silence.  “These were left over.”

“They’re... better than what they ended up putting in there,” she says, after a moment.

“Yeah,” he agrees, before sitting down on his bed and looking at her.  “So.  I... don’t really know what we do now.  I mean, do I still want to punch you?  I guess not really, but I’m also not super happy to see you.  I’m mostly just...sad.  You know?”

She looks at his desk chair, and when he nods, she sits down on it and forces herself to look him in the eye.  “I’ve been... I don’t know, preparing a speech for this moment for months now, and I guess it always starts with an apology.  Not because I started seeing your ex-girlfriend, which sucks but... I’m not a bad person just because she’s your ex.  The thing I’m actually sorry about is that we didn’t tell you sooner.”

“You’re still together?” he asks, after a moment.  The look on his face is pinched, like she can’t really give the right answer to this; she’s a bitch if the answer is no, and she’s a bigger bitch if the answer is yes.

She can handle being a bitch, though, and just digs her nails into her thighs a little before saying, “Yeah.  We’re still together.”

“And... she’s happy?” Sam finally asks, in the smallest voice she’s ever heard him use; it breaks her heart all over again, and she swallows hard just to be able to find her voice again.

“Yeah.  She’s happy.”

Sam looks at her with a wry, defeated expression on his face.  “You say that like you know it.  I always wondered, when we were together.  If she was happy enough, I mean.”

There isn’t much of anything she can say to that, and so she just looks at the floor for a little while.

“She hasn’t been mine in a really long time,” he finally says, and then twists his lips.  “But--I feel the need to like, settle this with you somehow, because even though Quinn is like, positive that you didn’t actually go after her when she was with me--”

“I really, really didn’t, Sam.  It really fucked me up when she broke up with you.  I thought you were good for her,” Santana admits.

Sam scoffs a little, and then just sighs.  “Look--I know you think I’m basically a girl with a dick or whatever, but I don’t really do these kinds of conversations.  If you were a dude, I would slug you and then we’d have a beer together and we’d be fine again, but I can’t do that with you.  So I’ve been thinking, and there’s only one way for me to get over this.”

She looks at him for a moment, and then he gets off his bed with a sigh and turns on his PS3.

“You can be whoever, I don’t care, but if you even so much as hover over Sub-Zero, I’m throwing you out,” he says, and then tosses her a controller and flicks on his television as well.

She almost laughs, but then just looks at the set in his shoulders and instead fiddles with the buttons for a moment before saying, “Hey--Sam?”

“Hm?”

“How’s... is Quinn okay?”

He turns to look at her over his shoulder and says, “She’s managing.”

“Okay,” Santana says, wondering how it is that she _knows_ she’s right, and yet it still smarts like hell to think that somehow Quinn is exactly as fucking miserable about this as she is.

...

Two beers and two hours of tournament mode later, and Sub-Zero rips out Kung Lao’s spine, at which point Sam just says, “If you break her heart I’ll break your … I don’t know.  I’ll find something to break, though.”

“I know,” Santana says, and then watches as Sam turns off the television again and looks at her.

“You’re a _real_ asshole sometimes,” he tells her.

“I know that, too.”

“But you’re the best friend she’s ever had, and you have her back when it counts, and …”  He sighs with a shudder.  “I miss being able to hang out with you guys.  Christmas was _so_ weird; Quinn just cried all the time and I mean.  I don’t know.  It’s been more than a year, and she could do worse than you.  I mean, you’re really hot, even if I had no idea she even swung both ways, so I guess--”

“Sam,” she says, softly.  “You don’t need to do this.  We were the ones who fucked up, okay?  And I know I’m speaking for both of us when I say that we’re really sorry.”

He nods after a moment and then says, “Someday, I’d like to be able to come visit, and hang with you both like we used to.  Make breakfast and stuff, and play video games with her on my team just because she sucks so bad at them.”

“Someday,” Santana says, and almost manages a smile.

He takes a deep breath and then says, “ _Man_ , you suck at Mortal Kombat.  I was going to originally suggest Mario Kart but I mean, I didn’t think that throwing a shell at you would feel quite as good as ripping out your spine, so...”

She actually laughs a little.

“Want to get a cheese steak?” he asks, after a moment.

“Only if you let me pay,” she says.

“ _That’s_ a first.”

And yeah, it comes out a little more awkwardly than it would have a year ago, but--they’re going to get there.  She can see that they are, because he wants it more than he wants to be right, or than he wants them to all be unhappy.

It would be _really_ great if some of that could rub off on Quinn, but she’s not going to push her luck by saying anything to him that has the words “Quinn” and “rub” in the same sentence.

...

Rachel’s watching a National Geographic documentary with Mike when she gets back home, at around 2am, and looks at her expectantly.

“He’ll be okay,” Santana finally says, deflating completely and sinking down into Rachel’s chair.

“Sam’s cool,” Mike says, and then smiles a little.  “We hung regularly back in high school, and I mean, we all kind of envied him, because he legit got to hook up with _every single_ hot girl at McKinley at one point or another.  But everyone liked him because was nice, and not stupidly shy, you know?”

“He’s a great friend, and a better boyfriend,” Rachel says with a sigh, leaning into Mike’s side.

“What the _fuck_ are you two watching?” Santana finally asks, when they’re both totally engrossed in the show again.

“It’s a documentary about numismatics, focusing specifically on the origin of the modern dollar,” Rachel says, before shushing her.  “It’s actually _really_ interesting--”

“Yeah, okay.  I need some better friends,” Santana mumbles, heading to her bedroom with a kiss to Rachel’s skull and a fist-bump to Mike.

Once in bed, she looks at her phone, and scrolls all the way to the bottom of her contact numbers, where Quinn and Sam are book-ending Rachel, and if that’s not a fucking weird comment on this entire situation, she doesn’t know what would be.

After a moment, she changes Quinn to ‘Tubbers’ and Sam to ‘Trouty Mouth’, and puts in her own number under Satan in order to separate them.

It feels incredibly dumb, but it will stop her from accidentally calling Quinn when she’s drunk again, only to have to hang up as soon as she hears her voice.

It’s _not_ just about principles, or pride.  It’s about respect.  And she can’t budge on this one.

...

By the time spring rolls around, in early March for a change, she’s mostly gotten to grips with her schedule and Rachel’s; they see each other twice a week like clockwork, and sometimes manage a whole Sunday morning together as well, in what Rachel starts calling their _religious time_ for, well, obvious reasons.

She’s starting to feel good about not just _right now_ but also _next year_ , because they work together with a lot of bickering and compromise, but they’re both capable of making it these days.  Sure, she’s a little envious sometimes about the silent and effortless way that Mike and Britt move around the city together, but--she’s not that simple, and neither is Rachel.  It figures that it’s not opposites that work in that sense, but rather that their similarities are what keep them from shredding each other’s nerves completely.

On a Sunday in the middle of the month, Rachel turns to look at her and says, “I’m going to Columbus.”

“Uh,” Santana says, because Puck doesn’t live there anymore, and she _really_ doubts Rachel wants to see Finn, which means...

“This has gone on too long,” Rachel says, frowning at her.  “And--you’re very right in not apologizing, but someone has to go talk some sense into Quinn, because this little dark cloud is _literally_ following you everywhere, like you’re Pig Pen, and I would be deliriously happy if I wasn’t so sad for you that your best friend is such an _ass_ about our relationship.”

“You want to go talk to her,” Santana surmizes, and then winces unwillingly.  “I’m.. not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“It’s the only idea,” Rachel says, before running her hands over her face.  “She’s never going to apologize, and someone needs to make her understand that I’m _not_ just using you; that I care about you exactly as much as she does, because that’s what this is about.”

“Rach--”

“She’s worried that there’s no place in your life anymore with me in it, which is complete nonsense, and this is a conversation that is so many years overdue that--well, I’m _going_ ,” Rachel says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

“And you’re sure this isn’t going to make things worse?” Santana asks, raising her eyebrows.  “I mean, Rach, she’s... I’m not going to make excuses for her.  She’s _vicious_.  Especially when she feels cornered, and you showing up in her city, telling her she’s a dick...”

“I know,” Rachel says, and smiles wryly.  “Believe me, Santana.  I _know_.”

“She’ll go for the heart of you.  And she knows how to, Rachel.  You think she’ll leave your mother alone just because this isn’t about--”

“She will, just because she has to, or I get an opportunity to talk about what kind of example she’s setting to her daughter, and she doesn’t want me to go there,” Rachel says, so calmly that it almost scares Santana.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then Rachel turns away from her.

“We’re unfortunately not that dissimilar, on the things that matter,” she says, softly.

Santana curls up behind her and pulls her into a hug.  “You want me to come with you?”

Rachel shakes her head.  “No.  If you come with me, she won’t take me seriously; she’ll feel ambushed, and we’ll all just yell at each other some more.  This needs to come from me.  I _need_ to win her over, even though she’s wrong.”

The tears are unexpected, because--honestly, this is just a conversation, but even so.  “I’m really sorry it’s come to this,” she says, her voice hitching in the middle.  “I mean, you shouldn’t... have to do this.  At all. She has _no_ idea what kind of person you are, and she doesn’t deserve to get the best parts of you.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Rachel agrees, before rolling over again and linking their hands together.  “But I’m not doing this for _her_.”

...  
She paces for almost a day and a half, feeling exactly as fucked up as when Rachel ran off home almost a year ago--and yet completely different, because no matter what, at least she’s sure that _Rachel’s_ coming back.

Mike puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “C’mon.  Let’s go out for a run; you need to relax.”

She can’t, though; even after five blocks of trying to keep up with him, she can’t quite shake the feeling that Rachel is making a mistake, and it’s the same one she’s always made:

She hopes for the best in people, when really they’re mostly only capable of the worst.

...  
When keys slide into the lock and the door opens, Mike excuses himself without asking and heads to his bedroom; Santana just tenses on the couch, ready to fly up and do whatever Rachel needs, but all that happens is that Rachel drops her small carry-on and says, “Hey.”

She sounds exhausted, and her eyes are a little red, but she’s in one piece, and so Santana just heads over with three big strides and pulls her into a hug.

“Hey.  Do you want to talk about it?” she murmurs into Rachel’s hair, and Rachel shakes her head before pulling back and kissing her in a way that she doesn’t think they _have_ kissed before; like they’ve had a terrible argument, or something, and just really need to reconnect.

“Move in with her,” Rachel whispers against her lips, when she pulls back.

“What?” Santana asks, ducking her head to look at Rachel.  “Are you--”

“Move in with her.  She only has one year of credits left to pass, and you’ve both planned for this for a very long time.”  Rachel smiles gently after a moment and says, “We’ll be okay.  We have all the years afterwards, when she’s not in the city anymore, and--”

“God, you’re unbelievable,” Santana exhales, and then kisses her again, squeezing hard enough for it to hurt.  “I don’t even--”

“It’s okay,” Rachel says, squeezing her arm for a second and then stepping away.  “Quinn, we’re--you can come in now.  We’re done.”

Rachel slips around her and picks up her bag again and disappears into the bedroom while Santana looks at the doorway, and Quinn takes a small step forward and appears in view.

For a long moment, they just stare at each other; and Quinn looks like _shit_.  She hasn’t looked this bad since the last months of pregnancy, when every single thing that weighed on her was too much for her to carry, and something about that breaks through whatever resentment Santana was desperate to hold on to.

“Did you apologize to her?” she asks, her voice cracking a little, but otherwise steady.

Quinn’s jaw works furiously for a few seconds, but then she lowers her eyes and nods.

“Did you _mean_ it?”

Another small nod, and then then Quinn bites her lip, and Santana can’t really handle any of this anymore.

They sort of meet on the threshold of the apartment, and Quinn holds on to her so tightly that she can barely breathe enough to gasp out a, “I know I was a fucking terrible friend to you, when the baby happened, and we’re even now, okay?  We’re _even_ now, and don’t you ever fucking do anything to undo that again.”

“I won’t,” Quinn squeezes out thickly.  “I won’t.”

It’s the first time in ages she’s seen Quinn cry, and even though she figures this is probably not the end of the constant bullshit between her girlfriend and her best friend, it’s _something_.

“I know you don’t get it, but I love her.”

Quinn wipes at her eyes and steps away and says, “I was wrong.  I thought you two would’ve crashed and burned by now, and I was wrong.  Okay?  I don’t know her at all.”

“So come to New York.  Live with me, get to know her.  Get to know _us_ ,” Santana says.

Quinn chuckles weakly and says, “You don’t have to--”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Santana says, and gives Quinn a pointed look that makes her look so ashamed of her shit that--yeah, they’re done with this now.  

Quinn takes another deep breath and then nods.  “Okay.”

“You fucking Evans yet to ease the pain of not having me in your life?” Santana asks, when Quinn’s still struggling with her composure and she’s officially sick of everyone looking so wrecked all the time.

Quinn blushes furiously and then gives Santana her best possible ‘eat shit and die’ look, which doesn’t work at all when she’s still sniffling and wiping at her eyes.

...

“So now what?” Santana finally asks, when Quinn’s come and gone to the bathroom and they’re sitting at the breakfast bar.  Rachel’s still in her room, but whatever--she’s probably just sleeping, because God knows she sleeps when she can these days.

Quinn sighs and says, “Rachel suggested we... all go out to dinner.  You and Brittany and Mike.  Just to--I don’t know.”

“What, get you used to the idea that we cuddle and shit, and sometimes hold hands for entire meals?” Santana asks, a little sharper than intended.

Quinn looks away and says, “No.  To try to rediscover what my best friend’s life is like.  Now that she’s happy.”

“Rachel’s pretty smart,” Santana finally says.

“Is vegan food as disgusting as it sounds?” Quinn asks, a moment later, drawing a shape onto the breakfast bar with her index finger.

“Sometimes,” Santana stage-whispers, and Quinn laughs when Rachel calls out, “The walls are _still_ very thin, Santana; I’d advise you to think carefully about your answer.”

“Get out here,” Santana calls back, and the door pops open a moment later; Rachel strolls over on bare feet in one of Santana’s pairs of McKinley gym shorts and a Browns shirt, and then slips onto the seat next to her.

They can feel Quinn look at them, and Rachel squirms after a moment--until Santana just slips an arm around her waist and, well, then they stare back.

After a long moment, Quinn smiles faintly and says, “It’s really strange to see neither of you next to blondes.”

“Yeah, whatever; like a _million_ Aryan nation jokes just popped into my head, Q,” Santana says, her fingers playing with the hem of Rachel’s t-shirt.  She grunts and then laughs when Rachel elbows her in the side with a look of mock horror.

“I _can’t_ believe you went there, Miss I Have Nightmares About Being Deported To Auschwitz Because Of My Research Job.”

Santana rolls her eyes.  “Says the girl who once actually uttered the words, ‘it would be great if my nose could be less Hebraic and more Fabray-ic’.”

They both laugh after a moment and then look at Quinn’s hand slowly traveling to her own face.

“It’s not as strange as it sounds; for one thing, I don’t plan on _ever_ getting a nose job, and yours was merely the most proportionate one that came to mind,” Rachel says, easily.

“... thanks,” Quinn says, slowly.  “I think.”

Rachel glares at Santana for a moment, and then turns to Quinn.  “You should ask her about her research assistance, though.  The project is fascinating, even if you have no Jewish roots to--”

“My grandmother on my mother’s side is Jewish,” Quinn says, after a moment.

“Seriously?” Santana asks, with a frown.  “How--”

“We’ve... been talking.  Lately,” Quinn says, hesitantly, before looking at Rachel and sighing.  “Sorry.  I’m _trying_ , but this is a little--”

“Oh, no, of course,” Rachel says.  “I mean, as much as Brittany and Mike don’t mind when I talk about our sex life out loud, perhaps some areas of conversation are better left untouched between the three of us for now.”

Quinn, with a hilarious look on her face, finally just says, “... yeah.  Agreed.”

Santana almost gives up Rachel’s game by laughing, but then finally just waits for Quinn’s eyes to narrow and for her to sigh.

“You were kidding.”

“Yeah.  I have a sense of humor.  I suppose you would’ve known that if you hadn’t spent three years dousing me in big gulps or trying to undermine my natural authority in the choir room, but it’s not too late to find out.”

Santana muffles some laughter into her hand after that, and finally just looks at Quinn.

“She _will_ keep going until you crack a smile, you know.”

“Is this how she got through to you?” Quinn asks, and--it’s a casual question.  There’s no bitterness, and no tension, and it’s just the kind of thing that people ask: how did you meet, when did things change.

“In part,” Santana says, before grinning.  “Though, honestly, if it hadn’t been for that _fucking_ bikini at Kurt’s pool party...”

“I knew it,” Quinn says, slapping her hand down on the table.  “I _knew it_.  Puck thought I was just being crazy, but--”

“Oh, please, her eyes were practically burning _holes_ in my ass,” Rachel says, and then Quinn _does_ laugh and the world suddenly looks like a different place altogether.

She’ll accept them both poking fun at her forever, really, if it means that she can have all of her favorite people in the same room at once.

...

Brittany and Mike, on top of being literally the most forgiving people on earth, are also very good at making potentially awkward situations nothing short of great fun, and that’s how Quinn ends up sampling vegan sushi for the first time in her life--noting that it “at least tastes like something, which is more than I was hoping for”--and playing Pac Man in an arcade with Mike.

“She’s back to being normal Quinn,” Brittany says, stealing Rachel’s root beer float and drinking half of it.  “Which is cool, because scary Quinn is kind of a bitch, and I like when she can come and visit.”

“She’s going to live here next year,” Santana says, and then gets the weirdest idea of all--but it might just work.  “... actually.  Britt, how would you feel about living with the both of us?”

Brittany blinks and looks at Mike and Quinn, hip-checking each other--and yeah, there are some _burning_ questions there about how Quinn got good at video games, but she can hold off on those for the time being--and then leans over the table and kisses Santana on the cheek.  “ _Yes_.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’ll be just like middle school, except we won’t be making out in secret anymore and Quinn probably doesn’t pray as much as she did then,” Brittany says, pinching one of Santana’s fries on the way back.

Rachel smiles at her a moment later, and it’s weird; everything feels like it’s turning out pretty much exactly how it has to.  “You cool with living with Mike?”

“He’s neat, showers daily, and can probably explain to me why it is you have all of these fourteen year old boy interests that you hid _exceptionally_ well all throughout high school,” Rachel says, ticking the reasons off on her fingers.  “I think I will _love_ living with Michael.”

Her arm wraps around Rachel’s shoulder automatically, and after a moment she digs out her phone and looks for Trouty Mouth; she snaps a quick picture of Quinn at the game, and then sends it to him.

 _hahaha yeahhhh that’s probably my fault,_ he sends back

_Congratulations on figuring out how to remove that stick from her ass.  What’s your secret?_

She presses a kiss to Rachel’s cheek and then her phone buzzes again.

_quinn likes being a lady or whatever but she likes winning more :)_

“A lady or whatever,” she says out loud, and then snorts.

“Hm?”

“Nothing, babe,” she tells Rachel, and then steals a fry back from Brittany, just because she can.

...

The spring play is one of the wankiest, most pretentious things she’s ever seen, and even getting to stare at Rachel wearing a maid’s uniform for two hours doesn’t _really_ redeem it, but she’s bought the massive bouquet of flowers and then sheepishly hands it over while Leroy and Berry White coo over their kid.

“You were … basically the only good thing about that,” she finally says, because fuck if she’s going to start lying now.

Rachel laughs and hugs her and says, “The musical’s _much_ better.”

She’s right about that part, and the pay-off in hearing Rachel sing _Tonight_ , at last, makes her feel like less of a sucker for actually having gone out to find her a stuffed toy.

“What on earth is this?” Rachel asks, when she hands it over.

“A pterodactyl,” Santana says, with a shrug.  “Look, it’s what I found, okay.  Teaches you to ask me to do really embarrassing shit.”

Rachel stares at the toy for another moment and then, with a half-hearted sigh, tucks it under her arm.  “How was I?  … not flat? Not sharp?   Did I emote enough, or--”

“Jesus, have you _ever_ been sharp or flat in your life?  Tonsilitis doesn’t count,” she says, before Rachel can protest, and then leans in and kisses her.  “You were awesome.  Seriously.  I would voluntarily sit through this again, even, and it’s like the stupidest gay musical about gangs _ever_.”

Rachel laughs and then looks at the pterodactyl again.  “I’m going to call him Lopez, and he’s going to be my lucky charm on every audition I ever go on.”

“Yeah, that won’t look weird,” Santana says, dryly, but when Rachel snuggles into her side and says, “Thanks.  For believing in all of this”, she figures that there are worse demands to comply with in this life.

...  
Exams are a nightmare this time around.

She actually doesn’t see Rachel _at all_ for about two weeks, just keeping in touch with the occasional Facebook message to update on each other’s mutual misery; it honestly doesn’t look like things are much better in either Philly or Columbus, where Sam has completely given up on all capitalization and Quinn’s latest update was just a picture of a gorilla shooting itself in the face.

It’s how they talk, for the most part; all four of them, in awkward group conversations that Rachel still doesn’t feel comfortable participating in--except then at some point, when Sam just posts _off w/ my favorite night elf hunter for a beach week in TN catch you all later_ , she seems to get over it and just sends him a quick _“Night Elf Hunter” sounds significantly more dignified than “Dwarf Shaman”...._

It takes Sam a full day to respond, and when he does it’s from Quinn’s account.

_honestly night elfs are kind of weak sauce; dwarves are like super strong and stuff_

Followed by:

_i mean don’t tell Quinn i said that_

Followed by:

_I ...can... see what you post on my account, Sam..._

Followed by:

_oh crap_

Rachel sounds completely unwillingly emotional when she calls Santana to direct her to the thread, and then says, “Hey--three more days.  Right?  Three more days?”

Three more days until they head over to Pittsburgh, borrow her mom’s car, and start aimlessly driving around the country.

The idea of Rachel doing _anything_ aimlessly is amusing enough to get her through the absolute worst of her compulsory science option’s revision lectures, and by the time she’s actually getting around to packing--well, yeah.  

This is going to be a one of a kind summer.

...

“I’m getting a real Thelma and Louise vibe from you right now,” Santana says with a laugh, when Rachel is done hugging her mother goodbye and has decided, apparently, that the only way to commence this road trip is in ridiculously short jean shorts, with some sort of scarf wrapped around her head and these massive sunglasses that make her look like a bug.

Nevermind that they’re borrowing a _Prius_ to go on this adventure, and that they’re obviously not planning on driving off a cliff together--and, well, they _actually_ have sex all the time.

Rachel just grins and says, “Any opportunity to dress up, you know me.”

It’s completely true.

...

They swerve the opposite way, making their way up to Illinois as a starting point and actually spending a day and a half wandering around Chicago; it’s sort of like doing a European trip in small, because Rachel just drags her to every landmark that she has some personal feelings about and then tells her, with raucous laughter, about the pranks that she and her friend Matthew would play on their fellow summer school attendees just because everyone was so serious all the time.

It’s funny to think of Rachel as being a proponent of lightening up, but--watching her dig into a vegan sundae and basically smothering her nose in chocolate, there’s something very true about it anyway.  

Maybe that’s just what it is, really; she needs that kind of lightness in her life, even if Rachel’s also a ruthlessly ambitious asshole from time to time.

“Hey,” she says, before swiping the chocolate off her nose with a thumb and then licking it clean.  “What’s the silliest thing you’ve ever wanted to do and have never done?”

Rachel’s face lights up, and an hour later they’re mashed together in a photo booth in some sort of low-end mall on the outskirts of the city, making faces at the camera before just making faces at each other and finally just making out.

She doesn’t hesitate before putting them all on Facebook, tagging Rachel in them without telling her.

 _I had sex in one of those picture boxes once,_ Brittany says, in response.  
 _  
For the record: NOT with me_ , Mike adds about twenty minutes later, and Santana laughs before showing the phone to Rachel, who’s pulling them onto the interstate again.

 _Hey Lopez, there’s something on your face; I think it’s a HOT ASS JEW!_  Puck sends, when they’re just about heading out of Illinois and making their way over to Wisconsin; land of.... cheese.  And cows, possibly.  She really doesn’t have a clue, but doesn’t voice that thought, because it would just sent Rachel on an educational missive she can do without.

 _Noah Puckerman, if I ever hear you say anything like that about my daughter again..._ someone named _Hiram Berry_ replies, by the time they’re passing by Madison, and Santana almost spits out a mouthful of Coke.

“You let your dads follow you on Facebook?”

Rachel looks non-plussed.  “Of course!  How else would they keep track of my career in a logical and easily managed way?”

“Oh my _God,”_ Santana groans.

She’s pretty sure the last thing she posted on Rachel’s wall was a very drunken _coming home right now TAKE IT ALL OFF BABY_ right after exams.

“Oh, please, Santana.  They know we have se--”

“Just stop talking,” she says, and then gets saved by her phone beeping again.

Twenty pictures of _super_ sunburnt Quinn and Sam also making faces in the camera, before there's one final one of them just barely peeking out from behind a sign saying “Some of us don’t hate our friends enough to make out in front of them.”

She loves them.  Fuck, she loves _everyone_ \--especially Rachel, who somehow has decided that raunchy Paula Cole songs are the best thing to sing along to on a road trip, which has made it impossible for Santana to ever look at apples in the same way again.

… like she _cares_ , honestly.

...

They’re in Minnesota, which thus far hasn’t impressed, hilarious local accents aside, but then any day of just lying one of their pre-packed blankets and sharing a beer with Rachel is totally a-okay with her.

“This better than your trip with Puckerman?” she asks, tilting her head to look at Rachel.

“Duh,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes and stealing the beer.  The only time she ever says ‘duh’ is when she’s well on her way to being drunk, and Santana absolutely _loves_ knowing this kind of shit about her.  It makes everything feel so much more real.

“Yeah?”

Rachel gives her a dopey look that sort of makes her fall in love all over again, and then says, “If I could have this for the rest of my life, I’d be like, _singing what_?”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Santana laughs, playing with her fingers.  “Please; you could go mute tomorrow and you’d still--”  She laughs harder when Rachel covers her mouth and stares at her in horror.

“Do not _jinx_ me like that, Jesus, what is wrong with you?”

“Jesus?”

Rachel rolls her eyes.  “Important historical figure even if not the Messiah, Santana, and all of this is just a sign that you are a terrible influence and please do not _ever_ talk about that again.  The only thing I can imagine that’s worse than losing my voice is--”

The sentence trails off, and after a second Rachel just rolls her eyes.

“Well, you know what I mean.”

It’s interesting to think that she ranks _above_ voice, and she doesn’t actually know what to do with that at all; except maybe, say out loud, “You know--law school would be cool, but I don’t need it.”

Rachel tangles their fingers together tightly and passes the beer back, and they drink it silently, leaving Santana to wonder if anything this important can ever really be this simple.

...

The call from her dad knocks them out of their happy state of being for at least an hour in a North Dakota diner, where Rachel’s picking at some fries--her only option and Santana’s Googling some place for them to have a decent meal for the first time in at least a week and a half.

She answers without meaning to, and then just says, “... hey?”

“Santana,” he says, sounding like he’s feeling exactly how she does.  “How are you?”

“I’m... fine.  Uh.  Why are you calling?”

She digs out a pen and writes the word _dad_ on a napkin, shoving it towards Rachel on the other side of the table, and then frowns when her dad just takes a deep breath and then says, “We need to talk about your college finances.”

It’s one of perhaps five things she never thought he’d say out loud to her, and most of the other four are things like “I’m proud of you” and “I love you”, so--this wasn’t the one she was banking on.  She knows her face is betraying her by the way Rachel frowns in concern, and then just gets out of the booth and heads outside.

“What’s going on?” she asks, the words rushing from her lungs.

What follows is a stilted, formal conversation about how divorce affects global wealth, property ownership, and tax classifications in equal amounts, and she can barely follow any of it until her father says, “The long and short of this is, Santana, that your living expenses are going to be cut in half.  There’s nothing else we can do.  We’ve prioritized your tuition and the rest of it is going to depend on loans.”

“What, on top of the ones that I’m planning on taking out for _law school_?”

He says nothing for a long time, and then just says, “I didn’t realize you were planning on going to law school.”

“Of _course_ you didn’t,” she says, and hangs up.

He doesn’t call back, and she calls her mom instead, who apologizes.  “I tried to call you first, but he beat me to it; we just got the result from our accountants back and...”

“We’re poor,” she says, in summary, before biting her lip and rubbing at her forehead.  “I’m living in New York city, my girlfriend is trying to break onto _Broadway_ , and now I have to find a job to stay in college.  Nevermind what we’re going to do after this.  I--”

“Mija, if there was _anything_ we could do--both your father and I--”

“I know,” she says, and hangs up on that conversation too.

Rachel finds her when she’s sitting on the curb, and sits down next to her silently, before handing her the rest of her chicken sandwich and putting a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m okay,” she says, when she thinks that she’s true.  “I’m... yeah.  You know how the one constant in my family was always that we were loaded? ... I need to … get a job.  Do you think the bakery would--”

Rachel says, “Oh, baby, what happened?” and then she just sort of shudders and sinks into Rachel’s side.

“Life happened.  And I’m not going to whine about this.  I’m going to... talk to Quinn, who knows exactly what this is like, and we’ll figure something out.  Her, me and Britt; between dance classes, and Quinn’s savings and whatever.  We’ll figure something out,” she says, more firmly than she feels it.

Rachel doesn’t offer platitudes, or anything other than a solid presence at her side.

When she’s finished chewing on one of the most tasteless sandwiches she’s ever had the displeasure of eating, she realizes that that’s more than enough.  For now.

...

The summer passes in a blur of having to cancel unpaid internships at the expense of slugging coffee around, though there is something weirdly satisfying about being a colleague to that asshole barrista who still checks out Rachel when he thinks Santana isn’t looking.  (His name is Adam, and he’s majoring in political theory, which says just about enough about him.)

Her friends do what they can; everyone starts stopping by ‘their’ Starbucks now just to be able to charity tip her when she’d rather they just fucking man up and go see Rachel’s outdoor theater performances or something.  The only person who really gets what this is like, suddenly going from _everything_ to _very little_ , is Quinn, and Quinn’s not yet in the city, though that’s happening soon as well.

Brittany’s found them a place, and it’s far away from where Rachel and Mike and their first apartment are going to be, but it’s affordable and on a good commuter line and fuck, she can’t be a chooser anymore these days--every penny she saves now will make law school more affordable, and the weirdest thing of all is that she wants it more than ever, now that it’s almost out of reach.

The height of humiliation is Leroy calling and saying, “If there’s anything we can do--”, like they’re not already breaking their backs trying to support Rachel.

“You can put me in touch with people who might be able to get me a job when I finish with my JD,” she finally says, because it’s the only not rude response she can think of.

“You bet,” Leroy just says, and then talks about Project Runway like none of this is even really happening.

...

The thing is, she has a support system, and by August, she has Sam dropping Quinn off with three suitcases and a few garbage bags of her stuff, and they actually manage a completely not-awful hug and a very casual conversation in person again.

When Sam sees Rachel, things tense up for a moment, but then _Quinn_ of all people rescues the moment with a quick, “Hi, Rachel.  You look... …. have you _grown_?”

It’s the dumbest joke of all time, but then this is possibly the first joke Quinn has ever even attempted, full stop, so Santana can’t help but crack up anyway, especially when Rachel looks down at her own legs like they’re _doing_ something.

Quinn has a whispered conversation with Sam before he leaves, with just a fist-bump and a very brotherly looking hug, and when Quinn sighs and watches him go, Santana can’t help but look at Rachel and mime a little heart with her hands that has Rachel rolling her eyes and slapping her in the arm.

It’s funny, that this is how things are--with Rachel looking at Quinn wryly a few hours of carrying things around their new apartment later, and says, “Take care of her”, like she means it.

Quinn just sort of smiles and grimaces at the same time in response, and Santana finally just rolls her eyes.

“Ladies, there is _more_ than enough of me to--”

“Shut up, Santana,” they then say, in tandem, which is probably the best start to this new living arrangement that anyone could’ve hoped for.

...  
Even with a research project _and_ a job, and Rachel halfway across town, and Quinn’s hormonal ass all up in her business again, things are...

Well, if she’s honest, they’re the best they’ve ever been.  

The moments where she gets to relax are few and far between, but when they’re there, they involve everyone she loves in the same place; even Sam is coming to the city again semi-regularly, mostly to talk strategy about their campaign with Quinn--and yeah, the fucked up look on Santana’s face when Quinn actually seriously asked if a battle axe would be preferable to a spear on a particular side quest was _completely_ unavoidable, even if the Wonder Twins did end up kicking her out of the room for laughing at them--but at least they’re all capable of being in a room together again.  

Sure, she and Rachel tone it down deliberately when he’s around, but he doesn’t look like he minds so much anymore, by the time the school year starts again; he just looks like he can’t believe that this is what his group of closest friends looks like, these days, and …

Well, _that_ , she can relate to.

...

Everyone getting along again is nothing more than a bonus, anyway; really, she’s not sure she’ll ever really need more than this:

It takes three twists, and a lot of squinting because the light in the hallway is out again, but in the end she manages to get the door open and drops her backpack around the corner of it before leaning back with a sigh.

“Longest day, huh?” Rachel calls out, poking her head around the kitchen.

“I thought you were busy?” she says, kicking her shoes off; Quinn is going to fucking snap at her about putting them in the shoe rack tomorrow, but she’ll deal with that _then_. Right now, there’s just that pleasant surprise of coming _home_ and actually finding exactly what she wants there, on every level.

When she turns into the kitchen, Rachel just smiles and holds out a half-finished Vitamin Water in one hand, and a half-eaten take-out container in the other, and Santana sinks into her arms before taking both.

“Can we name our future cat Mr. Schuester?” she says, later that night, when they’re watching some David E. Kelly musical show that never quite made it big, but Rachel wanted to see just to have a reason to bitch about how unrealistic it was.

“... why?

“Because.... it’s going to like, do everything in its power to destroy everything that’s rightfully yours,” Santana says, with a small grin.  “C’mon.  It’s seriously the best name ever.”

Rachel snorts, stretches, and then finally just sighs.  “Yeah, okay.  Why not.”

“You’re the best,” Santana says, and pulls her in just _that_ much closer.

“I know, obviously, but it’s never not nice to be told,” Rachel says, hiding a smirk with minimal effort, and Santana just prods her in the side until she’s laughing quietly.

In the list of things she loves about her girlfriend, the unrestrained way she laughs when she’s really amused by something is near the top, and so she shuts her laptop takes a moment to just... _look_.

“Hey,” she says, in nothing more than a whisper.

“Hey,” Rachel says back, her eyes smiling.

“.... do you still own that bikini you wore at Kurt’s?” she finally asks, because as much as she loves these moments from time to time--where they really just stupidly _stare_ at each other, and that’s a conversation in its own right--she’s also exhausted and, well, _happy_.

“You’re an incorrigible pervert,” Rachel says, mildly.

“I resent that.  It’s not my fault I have _eyes_ ,” Santana protests weakly, before dropping a kiss to Rachel’s clavicle.

“I _might_ do,” Rachel finally says, fingers tangling in her hair and stroking through it until she’s on the verge of falling asleep.  “I guess you’ll just have to stick around, to find out.”

“Good thing I was planning on that anyway, then,” Santana mumbles, and closes her eyes.


End file.
